Am I jealous...?

I try not to be. I accept that there are thousands of writers much better than I am, and that's fair enough. I read many of their books, and thoroughly enjoy them. But...

We live in an age of celebrity. We, as writers, have to face it. And if we are not Names (eg Jeffrey Archer, Jilly Cooper, Wilbur Smith, Hilary Mantel; writers who have worked their way up in the past to well-deserved success), or "celebrities" (Jordan, Pippa Middlleton, Alan Titchmarsh), nowadays, we are in for a struggle.

Take Richard and Judy. Someone pointed out to me today that Judy Finnegan's debut novel is currently no. 430 in Amazon sales; Richard Madeley's  is no. 10. These may well be excellent novels, but perhaps it doesn't matter so much if they are not. Richard has (to my knowledge) done two TV interviews about his novel, although probably he doesn't need to, while some of us are lucky if we get a five-minute slot on local radio. The odds are very much against us, whether we are brilliant or pretty poor. It's a fact.

I read a lot of new novels, and some are quite outstanding, like Clare Morrall's wonderful The Roundabout Man. ,  and yet that novel (for example) is currently at no. 141,000.

So while I enjoy rather than envy those who deserve success, I am sad for much of the publishing industry. Sad, that so many good novels seem to go unnoticed (and largely unread), and some terrible ones do well. It's something we as run-of-the-mill writers have to live with (here, I speak for writers like myself), and do the best we can. We write because we love writing, and accept with pleasure such rewards as may come our way. But it is hard to read a book that is badly written, and possibly even ghost-written, whose 'author' is flying high in the charts, while many of the rest of us just bump along near the bottom (and are very grateful to be published at all).