There exists a wonderful tension that the writing community lives under, and one that the community in Descent: Diathesis and the subsequent volumes never quite reconcile; that of being a cooperative group hell-bent on competition.
Once the manuscript’s done, an author’s mind turns to sales as surely as a young man’s does to lust in spring, and regardless of what is said by economists and advertising execs the market is limited. Huge perhaps, but finite. So by definition we authors, and publishers, while not being at each others throats are in there competing for the hard-earned dollars our limited market of readers have, and woe betide those of us in niche genres - it is even smaller, tougher and more competitive. Jump ahead (or back) in time to being an author in the process of writing or editing and social media is full of like-minded, gentle souls who encourage every pen/key stroke, make the appropriate happy noises at rudimentary cover art, and are more than willing to share their advice, time and knowledge to any who ask.
At this point both Richard Dawkins and the entire patriarchal line of the Medicis are screaming in my mind, reminding me that it all could be the worst form of subterfuge, an incessant, subtle game played by the more adept authors simply to crush others who are less cunning and represent possible threats. After all, what better way to eliminate a possible competitor author than to beta-read their work and give misdirection, refer them to the wrong publisher, or tell them that adorning their cover art with swastikas and entrails is a marvellous way to differentiate their work in the romance genre?
Cynicism aside, it is curious how we keep this juxtaposition in mind and body as we write. Perhaps it’s the realisation that barely 1% of us will, no matter how the cards fall, break into whatever ‘success’ is deemed to be; or that barely 1% of the 1% will gain financially, and I mean gain rather than just be able to eat occasionally, from the craft. For me, I choose to think it’s because that out of all of us who are alive and writing now only a handful will be remembered and re-read in 1,000 years time. It is a temporary, wonderful, short and precious gift to be an author, one that shouldn’t be squandered on hate and jealousy.
As one ancient writer once said, we are all grass, flowers that bloom briefly then pass, no more to be remembered.
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