I read the article in GalleyCat about Justin Bieber Bombs in Print yesterday. I have to admit I had mixed reactions. On one hand, this kid is only a wee bairn, who struck a book deal last year about his “memoirs.” I remember blogging about my dismay that he’d lived long enough to actually have memoirs. I also had some choice opinions about the publishing industry that holds this kind of book near and dear to their heart.
While I realize the large presses are beholden to their conglomerate overlords to bring home the blockbusters, I bemoan their thirst for the celebrity books to the exclusion of…ummm…how to say this…”good books.” There. I said it. The celebrity “tell all” books are literary Peeping Toms, in my small-minded opinion, and I can’t help but wonder at the number of worthy books that won’t see the light of day because the big money is being spent on “Who’s Bopping Whom.”
It’s like the time I received a query that promised to “tell all the dirt” on numerous movie stars, written by a groupie. I wondered why I should care about this. Do I really want to know who was hurking up their Steak Diane in the Brown Derby’s potted plants? Do I care that Big Chested Movie Star had a mad, wild affair with some politician, all told by Big Chested Movie Star’s ex-secretary? Blurg. I can’t imagine a bigger waste of ink and paper – not to mention the editing time. How many brain cells die to publish this stuff?
I can’t help but feel saddened that many “worthy” books won’t be published because they won’t make the megabucks that folks like Baby Bieber will.
Has the tide turned and the public has grown weary of peeking under the lacy dainties of the rich and famous, as GalleyCat article suggests? I’m not convinced the public has suddenly grown a more discerning literary palate that excludes lascivious stories of debauchery and access. I think it’s more a matter of Baby Bieber’s fans aren’t interested in the printed word.
But one can hope, right?