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I make no apologies for returning to the subject of celebrity novels, prompted as I am by Richard Madeley's appearance on the box to promote his. (His wife has already done it.)
I wonder if people in the public eye ever think of submitting novels under a false name and see how far they get - but I don't suppose so for a second. If Richard Madeley had submitted his novel, however good, as John Smith, he'd probably still be knocking on doors. Surely he realises this.
When you think that publishers can produce only a limited number of new titles in a year, these pieces of cake handed to celebrities reduce even further the tiny chance unknown writers have of gaining acceptance. Coupled with the matters of promotability, word count, and genre, (which have nothing to do with writing ability), the chance must be virtually nil. No wonder so many people are resorting to self-publishing.
On the radio last weekend, Terry Deary, who I've previously admired for straight talking, made the ridiculous statement that "98%" of self-published novels are total rubbish. Of course, there'll be dross among the gold but 98%? Come on! What choice do even accomplished writers have now anyway?