Via Macmillan New Writers’ blog, a post from one of their number, Michael Stephen Fuchs, on his blog Dispatch from the Razor’s Edge, about the lack of happiness, riches and sex arising from publishing your first novel. Or, as Michael writes in his post header: "The following piece was sorta kinda commissioned by someone at Salon.com, which subsequently decided they had much more important things to run in December. No other organ has rushed to publish it – no one wants to hear the truth, man! – so here it is (in the usual place). "
Here’s an excerpt:
"I have friends who think I must be rich after being published on a recognizable imprint. Bwahahaha! With the arrival of my first royalty check, I learned that ten years of writing had netted me the same amount as two weeks of doing computer shit for an investment bank. (And, yes, my book actually did pretty well – by the modest standards of first novels.) The fact of the matter is that the world is drowning in fiction (most of it awful, admittedly). And it is a very vain thing indeed to think the world needs your book – much less that they’ll pay you gazillions for it.
As far as I’m aware, I have not, up until this very moment, gone out on a date with one single woman as a result of being a published author. Not one."