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More Writers than Readers: The Downside of Publishing Freedom

January 22, 2018

At the banquet following my doctoral defense, a colleague asked me about my future plans. I mentioned that, among other things, I planned to continue writing fiction. That colleague then said something that made quite an impression on me: “The problem with writing fiction nowadays is that there are more writers than readers”. Those words really resonated with me. I don’t know if this is actually the case – instinctively I would say “it can’t be” – but I’m afraid if not literally true, then it’s pretty damn close. You don’t need me to tell you what that means in terms of supply-and-demand economics.

In the first article written for this blog, I had said this:

I hope I don’t come off as too self-important when I say that people like me […]with the artistry to create and populate fictional worlds and characters (that are still allegorically linked to “reality”), would have been revered masters and teachers in another time and another place.

This is an extreme example of the very same situation, only in reverse. It alludes to times when writing (that is, literacy itself) was not a given. To be able to write and write fiction, to boot, was something akin to witchcraft. I suppose we tend to be mesmerized by things we don’t understand; to me, knitting is like quantum physics.

But nowadays, although there might not necessarily be more writers than readers in a literal sense, the number of people who have the possibility to write something they call fiction, publish it in some way, and make it accessible to a wide – indeed an international – audience has skyrocketed.

more writers than readers
Writing was very hard when we didn’t have typewriters. It was hard when we didn’t have computers. Now, anyone can tap on the keys and “write a novel”
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“Is This Book Good? Or Is It Boring?”

January 21, 2018

Browsing around Goodreads, I noticed something interesting. In a discussion on a famous novel, someone asked: “Is this book good? Or is it boring?” I must admit, I was taken aback quite a bit by this question. I have seen questions like this before, as I have seen questions like “do you like my poem?” or “Is this a good photo, do you like it?”

This is a fundamental error that can lead to some serious misunderstandings. More crucially (and depressingly) it tells me that the average person doesn’t really understand anything about art. Perhaps partly because they were never taught how to. Our “education” systems promote not critical thinking but regurgitation of ideas; not compartmentalized meta-thought (multi-layer thinking about the process of thinking) but repetition. Welcome to the wonderful world of mediocrity

is this book good
“Is this book good?” Maybe a silly horse can answer that silly question
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Mary Shelley’s The Last Man: A Timeless Sentence

January 19, 2018

Note: the following article on Mary Shelley’s The Last Man is a modified excerpt (pp. 70-74) from my doctoral dissertation, “Time is Everything with Him”: The Concept of the Eternal Now in Nineteenth-Century Gothic, which can be downloaded (for free) from the repository of the Tampere University Press. For a list of my other academic publications, see here.

Mary Shelley’s The Last Man is an apocalyptic tale that, as the title suggests, deals with the possibility of someone being the last person left in the world after a plague has annihilated the human race. The trope of immortality is not only present, but also seen in a context of loss, destruction, and forlorn hope. Although Lionel Verney, the surviving character of The Last Man, is not an immortal in the strict sense of the word, he effectively possesses immortal status: he survives the death of everyone he knows, to the point that he apparently outlives every single person on the planet. In The Last Man, death is presented as preferable to staying alive.

The novel features a remarkably complex temporal scheme. Not only does it follow the typical narrative mechanisms of the Gothic canon – discovered manuscripts, multiple narrators, dubious objectivity – but also a time flow so chaotic that it verges on incoherence. The reader discovers that in the universe of The Last Man, time exists on more than one layer, as Albright argues:

Shelley frames her novel as an ancient prophecy by the Cumæan Sybil, written on Sibylline leaves (in various ancient and modern languages) found in a hidden cave in 1818 by an anonymous “author” … It is an ancient prophecy of a future apocalypse written retrospectively by its lone survivor, who looks back upon the final decades of the human race’s existence from the year 2100. By narrating the close of human history, the novel reconfigures and humanizes time. Since history is now complete, we can perceive it in its entirety. (2009, 133–134)

Mary Shelley's The Last Man
Shelley’s novel is among the first examples of post-apocalyptic fiction
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