Thursday, May 2, 2019

Articles, Interviews & Reviews published in Femasia Magazine

DEVIKA BRENDON

Devika Brendon is a Consultant Editor at FemAsia. She is an Educator, Reviewer, Journalist, and Writer. Devika was awarded First Class Honours in English Literature at the University of Sydney, and holds a PhD in English Literature from Monash University. She is a Teacher of English Language and Literature, and a literary mentor to emerging writers of all ages. Devika’s poetry and short stories have been published in journals and anthologies in Sri Lanka, Australia, India and Italy. Her critical reviews and opinion pieces have been published in both print and digital media, and can be viewed on her blog.

‘Take The Black Off The Crow’





article_image
Review of ‘Kakiyan’ by Devika Brendon 

On the cover of this book, a shiny, embossed ebony eye looks directly at us: alert, but not unkind. Kakiyan the Crow is on the qui vive. 

This is an immensely vivacious, immersive Jataka Tale; a contemporary Aesop’s Fable. And all are welcome at this table. The appealing and accessible story of a crow is part children’s book and part adult allegory, containing within its reach slight allusions and resonances to the cantos of mutability. 

The keynote of the story is resilience: the need for every successful species to develop inbuilt, ingrained survivalism. Know thyself, recommends the oracle-like Mama Alice Crow. Be yourself. Don’t think you can just fly solo and be an outlaw outlier like that Jonathan Livingstone Seagull fellow. In a ‘murder of crows’, be a good judge of character. Look for probable caws, as the saying goes. 

The author, Captain Elmo Jayawardena, was described at a recent reading of this book as having a ‘Conflict-free mind... free of assumptions and biases and prejudices’; and the nerve and spirit to deviate from the established norms of society. It takes such a personality to look positively and with appreciation at a crow, a bird often seen as ugly, dirty, and of a lesser order than the dove, the peacock and the swan. Those elitist, cocooned creatures, swanning and sunning themselves in airy realms above the mean streets patrolled by the likes of Kakiyan’s crow comrades. 

This story, set amidst the hierarchies and tribalism of a community of crows, takes place in the Jacaranda Condominium, where the main character, Kakiyan, eats, lives and observes his fellow ‘kakos’, as they learn about life and love, law and order, at a level we humans (who they call with some irony ‘The Great Ones’) do not often consider. 

This is an irreverent, side-eyed view of humanity, showcasing a scavenger’s often opportunistic point of view. It challenges our assumptions about ourselves and our authority, as these creatures, all with their own raisons d’être, practice their shooting on us, awarding points to themselves for skill, daring and accuracy. 

Human self-destructiveness and cruelty are noted: 

‘It’s an unkind thought perhaps, but the world would certainly be a better place if there was some way we could destroy all the Great Ones and eradicate them from the earth as they’ve done to some others who lived here. It is their endless greed and their insatiable appetite to outdo others that has demolished the sanctity of co-existence and led to this decline towards destruction. The inheritors of the future will have nothing left, be they bird, beast or the Great Ones themselves. It’s as if they have made a covenant to this effect, making sure everything is ruined as much as possible, and as soon as possible.’ 

The satiric elements of the fable are expressed through the wisdom of the elder statesmen and stateswomen of the crow community.  Cyril Crow, the raconteur, for example, ‘watched everything, saw everything, and knew everything that happened in the neighbourhood... He was strictly what you might call a "vicinity crow", never venturing out far from where he lived. He’d hardly been anywhere other than around their flame tree, and visiting us off and on at the jacaranda.’

The story outlines Kakiyan’s development, and in the process examines profoundly human issues of language, identity, colourism, group think, harassment and moral justice. The language is simple, and the syntax and phrasing in character and on point. As befits a modern parable, particularly in this era in which we are continually subjected to a cacophony of information, which seems at times like a tirade of inconsequence, the wisdom conveyed in this story is as bright as the eye of the crow on the cover. Accept things as they are; embrace your place amongst them. 

The ending made me sad, but it was entirely fitting that it should be as it is. The book is open-ended: it begins with ‘Perhaps a Crow knows more than you and me’ and ends with speculations and possibilities: ‘Free minds and free thoughts, just cheese castles we build inside of our heads’. 

The details are vivid and beautiful, the close-ups exactly as you would expect from the beady-eyed narrator. The dialogue is differentiated, idiomatic and snappy. The understated overview puts all the pieces in place. 

‘Things have changed, they always do’, says Kakiyan, illustrating a great universal truth in a few succinct words. 

Caws and effect, as he himself would say.

Friday, February 16, 2018

Tales From Byzantium: Old and Retold - Review of Orhan Pamuk's Red-Haired Woman

The Red Haired Woman (Penguin Random House, India 2017)

Tales From Byzantium, Old & Retold
 
The story centres on the competing tensions of love and the urge for individuation in father/son relationships spanning three generations, drawn together by the bonds these old and young men all had, unknown to each other, with the woman in the title, a charismatic theatre actress from a travelling troupe. The woman herself speaks only at the end of the 3 part narrative, which is the shortest part of the story. I thought on first reading the story that this truncated space allocated to the woman who is the im/moral centre of the narrative was a deliberate act of narrative showcasing, subverting tales of male heroes who are the subject of the great myths and legends of the world. Woman as reduced subject, relegated to the sexualised roles of lover, mistress and mother. On second and third reading, I still think so. But I am not certain if what is showcased is the sexism of patriarchal societies perpetuated throughout the ages, or a protest against it. Why is the woman in the title only allowed to put forward her perspective on the events at the end, and her explanatory narrative relegated to a post-script? Why is she mostly seen, and so relatively little heard?

Part 1 is told by a young man who works for a summer as an apprentice to a master well-maker.i in Turkey in the mid-1980s. Impatient, impulsive, distracted by his own aspirations and longings for love and success, the boy's adolescent energy clashes fundamentally with the older man's hopes to train him. Pamuk has said in an interview that he wove this story around his daily observations of two men who were working together on a well-digging project on a property close to where he himself lived.

This organic, natural affiliation, two people of different ages and from different backgrounds working together on a vital task, is the framework on which the narrative is built: the significances of their everyday contact, at the nexus of their lives. The master/apprentice dynamic is fraught with issues of loyalty, trust, gratitude and annoyance, suspicion, projection and partial misunderstanding.

The narrative is like a Byzantine mosaic. Creating a well in a dry land is both factual and allegorical: the imposition of a linear goal onto a cyclic, chaotic, karma-infused world.

    The master well-maker's acts of continuity show his wish to establish a legacy through imparting his wisdom to the young man, by day in the skilled creation of wells in a land where water is scarce, and at night through the telling of stories.

A master story teller can do this: take an everyday task and open it up, in a matter of fact way. Things get derailed, due to human ego and emotion. Sparks of other people's lives infiltrate the old stag/young stag primal mythology, the family romance. Time in this tale folds and creates its music like an accordion, and only in its opening and closing motions do we understand the apparent inevitability of the enactment of old patriarchal fables in the storyline.

    Pamuk creates a light, buzzy, first person sensory canvas for the young man's initial story, and  contrasts it with a telescoped, truncated summing up, devoid of poetry in the second part, as the young man turns into a middle-aged materialist, commercially successful, childless and cut off from his young man's dreams of becoming a writer.  A telling phrase associated with well-making can be used to unpack the freighted interlocked stories with their heavy allusions and ironies: 'We set to work inside the circles', says the young man, with fatigue and irony in his tone.

      The woman in the story, operating as mistress, wife, sexual awakener, lover, muse and mother, is important to the young narcissist only, as he says, because her gaze made him feel 'as if she'd seen something unusual in me'. He calls her 'the cause of his gladness', yet he fails to secure or sustain her. She falls through the hands of three generations of men, like a treasure they do not deserve, like water in a dry land.

      It is a tragic story, in the strict ancient sense: a human being throws away, and damages, with his own hands, what could liberate and fulfil him. He acts blindly, and angers and hurts and harms those around him. And much is lost, because the clear wisdom, the moral at the end of the Morality Tales are only partially listened to, and thus imperfectly understood.

    It is a pitiless story - there appears to be no redemption available to any of the protagonists. Their grapplings with each other, for love and ascendancy and mastery, end in irretrievable loss rather than gain, for all concerned. The central scene of confrontation between father and son, taking place at the end of the second part, and at the underground site of the accident which ends the first part, is the chthonic knot of the story. Unfinished business is completed, and as the primal Laws of Causality inexorably apply, the subterranean act that completes one thread of destiny initiates another through its impact.

     It is a maze, exemplified in words. And at the centre, is a monster, half man and half damaged boy.

 

Monday, January 29, 2018

Little Golden Books - Short Story

Little Golden Books                                   (C) Devika Brendon 2017 




I used to feel it a lot, when I was younger. The sense of bitumen, laid smoothly over something so much wilder, and more complex. The awareness of what exists, past the boundaries of the nature strip. 

It is a great country, you know. The imposition of imported demarcations. The controlled clearing, the pushing back of what was there before the projection and provision of what is convenient and effective has been successful, and efficient. 

But it is strange, to be so cut off: to find oneself continuously moving across this pre-arrayed sequence of neatened surfaces. The strangest thing is how normal it mostly all feels, here, in the present day. 

The settlers chose safety. They recreated what made them feel at home, and laid it down, with ordinances and sub clauses and admirably calm reliance on the Rule of Law. 

And everything is pretty clean. And everything works. 

But, at times, the neatness and convenience is repulsive. It shuts us out. As if the buildings are inaccessible, and the constructions have no aperture. 

In this country, the bins have liners. There are signs which prompt and alert us to the outlying hazards and dangers. 

I teach Higher School Certificate English, in Sydney, and one of the poems set for study this year is Robert Gray's 'Flames And Dangling Wire'. I think of its images today, as I look at the City through the filter of my mind's eye. As he noted, it all appears from a distance like stencilled shapes in a smoky haze. The sandstone, and the glass and steel towers, and the domes, sometimes seem as if they are all about to evaporate. 

The lightly muscled waters, sleek and tense and coiled, warily in wait. The layers of covering seem like a patina, and the modern discourses we engage in proliferate, like hastily scribbled annotations on an older, less legible manuscript. 

Have you heard the invocations of the original custodians of the land, at each public gathering? Do we know what we are collectively treading on? Under the carpet and the stone and the poured concrete? 

A few months ago, on a jewelled day in winter, I was at High Tea in Curzon Hall, where - years ago - my Anglican Girls' School had its Year 12 Formal. This occasion, sumptuous, replete and complete, with sandwiches and choux pastries and bubbly, was probably named 'The Heritage Afternoon Tea Package'. 

The soaring ceilings, the crystal fountain. The heritage. Well brought up, older Anglo Australians, so beautifully put together, so elegant and composed and refined and enclosed. Celebrating 200 years of the life of Jane Austen, in The Regency Room. 

 An avuncular older gentleman at my table, making conversation. Proffering platters of gourmet sandwiches, salmon slices and avocado. The refinements and courtesies. 
Every faux velvet chair with a cushion, each with its own cushion cover. 

And he was wondering what I was doing there. Politely, of course. 

Perhaps it is that generation. Modelling themselves on what they hold dear. One evening, at the Opera House, in the interval of a performance of 'Rigoletto', I think it was, my friend and I were sitting in the foyer with our charged glasses. And an elderly lady asked me, politely, where I was from. Did she mean, how long had I been in Australia? 

'I grew up here', I replied, with a smile. She seemed surprised. That I could speak English? That my Korean friend and I were enjoying the opera? An Italian opera, with English subtitles? I got the sense that she felt that we were invading her space. That she found it offensive that we were so much at ease. Strange though that seems. A brown skinned girl, and a golden boy, in faultless evening dress, observing the cultural codes, in a white building with its structures like sails, on a dark sea that predates all immigration. 

So I conversed, with this older gentleman, my High Tea companion, in Curzon Hall, in the acceptable way, of how long I had studied and taught English Literature. He seemed really interested, in what I had to say. 

And somehow it came up that I was born on Australia Day. Celebration of settlement. Tall ships, and fireworks and drunken outpourings of bonhomie. 

And he said, 'They are wanting to change the day of national celebration, you know. Change the name of it. To Invasion Day'. 

'They?', I courteously enquired, with all the color and heat of fireworks inside me, on interior display. 

What did he call them, amongst his own kind? Abos? Boongs? Coons? But to me, in The Regency Room, amidst the rituals of the 200 year Celebration High Tea, under the soaring ceilings, in the sandstone building wrought by Empire, of course, he uses proper names: Original Australians, Indigenous People. 

He does not use the word 'native', with me looking at him, with my big, dark eyes. Good choice. 

And stray sparks from the interior fireworks display lights up a little bit of the vast unexplored landscape, cut off inside. 

And so I say, 'Well, it's pretty easy to understand where they are coming from on this issue, isn't it? I mean, they were invaded, their culture destroyed, etc. etc. So many ways of erasing them have been tried. Why would they want to celebrate that? Seen in that way, to expect them to participate in celebrating that event, is to expect them to swallow a pretty unforgivable insult. Is it not?' 

He smiled, a little uneasily. I think he wanted to say, 'Come on, young lady, it's not that bad. No need to take that tone'. 

And so I say, 'It's a fact, isn't it? Generally agreed on? Universally acknowledged? It's happened a lot, all over the world. Thriving 21st century economies, First World nations, built fair and square - on genocide? And everything was founded on that, right from first contact.'

Rule of Law, built on fundamental beliefs and deeply venerated truths, of supremacy and hierarchy and assumptions, like his. Consensus. 

And when he took his leave, at the end of the occasion, he thanked me and said I was a breath of fresh air. 

He was not an unkind man. Just a person profoundly unaware of what lay beyond the pale. 


Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Review Of Salman Rushdie's The Golden House


   Glass, Brass, Gold & Granite: Salman Rushdie's The Golden House. Published in New Ceylon Writing, Issue #7, 2018.


   In many ways, writing and architectural construction are similar. The elements used in the construction of a work determine its beauty, its usefulness and its lasting value. Reading Salman Rushdie's latest work, I think of glass, brass, gold and granite as the constituent elements. And understructures of white marble, as in the hotels which are not named, so often not named that their identities come to mind.

  GLASS because so many aspects of it are transparent. The fake news and faux Facebook profiles and identity theft culture in which we live provides him with the perfect camouflage. The writing appears to drop names and clearly shows its characters to co-exist with real players on the world stage. He operates in strategic, glassed wall interstices. The green haired Joker in this surreal gothic Gotham is wild. The family evokes that of the Corleones in The Godfather. The female figures (always less finely drawn in Rushdie's stories) are partially erased before they utter a word, and thus are virtually stereotypes. Rushdie's real life alleged misogyny is displayed in the interviews given by some of his ex-wives, and in the digital world we live in these opinions exist side by side with the fictional portraits of women and men in his writing. He is a celebrity superstar, an actual inhabitant of the golden houses his fame and infamy have built. The universes for him are parallel, the cities and realms fuse and intersperse.

  Rushdie's writing is like Swift's: satiric, sardonic, both bitter and benign. And it is like Donne's poetry: full of verbal conceits, a display of learning, a bringing together of images from dispersed semantic fields. He is in his glory when the dichotomies and dualities of human life and contemporary post colonial and comic book infotainment culture scrape against each other and catch fire in his prose.


  BRASS because Rushdie's forceful brazenness has always been an aspect of his writing which appealed to me. There is tension, and anger, and passion and fury inspiring his intellect. The need to be the smartest arse in any room, hugely noticeable in Rushdie's earlier work, is subsumed into a greater purpose in his best writing. Needing to have the last word in any dispute must surely have been a problem for him all his life, and it is a relief to see and feel him more at ease, in this book. 'Fury', written in 2001, has a similar cover - a towering American monolith, scraping the sky - but do not judge it equal, or judge it a prequel to this sequel. In a sense, 'The Golden House' is more kin to 'Shame', in its targeted take-down of a dominant culture, infiltrated by its own corrupt progeny. The Golden House is not just reminiscent of The White House and King Midas, and its characters evocative of the truism that all that glitters is not gold,  but of Darth Vader, and The Death Star and its destruction in George Lucas's Star Wars franchise. Rushdie's familiarity with popular culture and his zesty appreciation of it is a big 'value added' to his panoramic portrayals of late 20thC/ early 21stC life.

GOLD because it is soft, malleable, ductile - and valuable. The ancient symbol for gold was a perfect circle with a dot in its centre. The structure of this book evokes that perfect formation, and draws us into its alluring, beckoning core. Not to The Heart of Darkness, human degradation in a primeval steamy jungle, but of The Heart of civilized Madness, in chill marbled Cities. The madness of commercialism, of otherisation and objectification, have become internalized, and normalized, and Rushdie is no longer angry, but resigned. He has gone from boil to simmer, and it brings out the flavor. This is not detached superciliousness. This is what happens when all hope in any redemptive force is gone, and all that is left is the ability to write about it: the ability to weld, and weave, and wield, the creative, world-creating word.

  Criticism can be made that Rushdie is just a highly educated heckler, who believes in nothing, and that his writing does not inspire hope or change anything for the better. It deconstructs cultural myths rather than affirms them. He is emphatically not a supporter of the reactionary fundamentalisms, slogans and received sociocultural wisdom he sees as impairing our potential to become more free, in this era. I think his fictional critiques create an alternate version of reality which provides us with the vital tools of scepticism, cynicism and logic. His vision of humanity is never wholly nihilistic, because it does not sneer or lose sight of the potential for betterment, or the aspiration for emergence and evolution, in all human beings.

     'Here is Nero Golden, lifting his ban on the media, showing a photographer from a glossy free magazine around his beautiful home... He speaks of his wife as his inspiration, as his lodestar, as the source of his "renewal"... A woman like Mrs. Golden, she is the elixir of life... Look at her! Can you doubt me? Did you see her Playboy photos? Of course not ashamed, why would one be ashamed? ... She's the jackpot, no doubt'.

                (Salman Rushdie, The Golden House, 2017, Penguin Random House, India, page 141)

        Just last week, Hugh Hefner died, saying that he had prepared for his passing by purchasing the plot in the cemetery next to the remains of Marilyn Monroe, who was the first centrefold in the first Playboy magazine ever printed. His death came too late for Rushdie to write about it, but Rushdie's satiric vision is so on point that his portraits are predictive. Rushdie would have pointed out that Hef was allegedly so cheap that he made Monroe buy her own copy of that inaugural magazine issue, even though she was a major contributor to it.



  GRANITE because Rushdie's mastery of his chosen art form is enduring. He has been able over his career of 35 years to take the volatile, ephemeral issues of the day and distill their meaning into something dangerous and beautiful. His most specific political attacks ('Shame', 'Satanic Verses') have done him personally more harm than good, but his universal riffs, his verbal pyromania, his vibrant joy in his own power of language to convey unambiguous meaning in uncertain times, is compelling and life affirming. He tells us children's stories with adult themes, in sly, sleek, sinuous and fabulous language.

  'The Ground Beneath Her Feet' was filled with deep feeling, the words resonant with the sound and rhythms of music, and the paradoxical, acrid tenderness of being alive in the serried, sequentially interaligned, globalised contemporary world. The Golden House is similar in scope, and ablaze with synergy. But the romantic love stories here go awry. Something more interesting and illuminating displaces them. Look at the 'Monologue of D Golden Regarding [His] Own Sexuality & Its Examination By The Professional'. A transcript between a Professional (Psychiatrist) and her patient/client, about why his/her romantic life is not working. It encompasses a critique of Feminism, an exploration of Postmodern Post binary gender awareness, and the concept of Free Will, made to fit for our times:

     'What if we're a federation of different states of being and we need to respect those states' rights as well as the union. I'm losing my mind trying to work all this out and I don't even know the words, I'm using the words I know but they feel like the wrong words all the time, what if I'm trying to live in a dangerous country whose language I haven't learned. What then.'

                 ( Salman Rushdie, The Golden House, 2017, Penguin Random House, India, page 254)

     Fictionalised transcripts of interviews between the writer and his shrink? Pure gold.


    Rushdie's latest book looks at the structures of power, the spaces created by greed, narcissism and vain glory, at the heart of commercial and economic empires in the early 21st Century, an era where no one in the whole world is safe. 'Give Me What I Want, And No One Gets Hurt' sings the lead singer of U2, Rushdie's friend, in the brilliant song 'Vertigo'. Government here is brazenly not of, by or for the people. The disconnects between people who should be allied hum and buzz, like electric fences in Jurassic Park. Celebrities and white noise and superficiality and Mammon all cohere in a frieze which is a snapshot of a new 'Horror', against which the characters move to enact their kismet.

  The pain here cannot be kept out of the beautiful spaces human beings create as monuments to their own capacity for self love. People die, immolated in bonfires of their own vanities. It is epic, in every sense, allusive and idiosyncratic. There are wide spaces in this book of marble vistas of words, stone screens of syntax with peek-a-boo coyness and voyeurism on demand, there are improbable natural objects apparently growing organically in a cultivated verbal iconography which is reminiscent of Spenser's 'Faerie Queen' with its stylised stateliness and subtle inlaid bejewelled motifs.

  Any minute now, the rented space of this fabulous place could be shattered, like 'the hotel that cannot be named', into a billion glittering pieces. This book is attention demanded, and rewarded, by a grown up provocateur. It is a work of both generosity and extortion. Read it through again, when you get to the end, and see how the apparently disparate fragments shine, in your mind's eye. That last paragraph, where the heirs to this afflicted lineage are seen through the lens of the virtual CCTV camera:

     'Now there are the three of us,... in an unspecified room,... The camera begins to turn faster, then faster still. Our faces blur into one another and then the camera is spinning so fast that all the faces disappear and there is only the blur, the speed lines, the motion. The people - the man, the woman, the child - are secondary. There is only the whirling movement of life.'

       (Salman Rushdie, The Golden House, 2017, Penguin Random House, India, page 370.)



     Told you Rushdie always wants to have the last word! And it is life affirming. It affirms life as it is, in its chaos, cruelty, confusion, nonclarity and dross - not as we may wish it to be.

  No one gets out alive, he says. Everyone gets hurt, even after you give the extortionists what they want.


    But life is the last word.


Sunday, September 17, 2017

The Downside Of Digital Evangelism

Written by Dr. Devika Brendon
Published in the Sunday Times Plus as 'Musings on new age muse of high-tech lit'. 17 September, 2017.



I want to suggest that those of us who look askance at the noise-making narcissistic authors beating their drums and tambourines all over the place and cyclically seeking fame and attention would do well to realise that this upsurge of apparent egotism is something the authors are forced to generate, to be heard in the competitive chaos of the world today. Peer recognition and acceptance is essential: thus the visible cultivation of the reader/customer base. Authors who 'generously' engage with their readership do so today for strategic reasons. Every reader is a 'mark' and what is targeted by the marketing campaign is not only their wallet, but their customer loyalty. 
There are many compelling reasons why writers should consider self-publishing: if you can create a PDF document of the book you have written, you can learn how to send your work out to the international reading public just by pressing the 'PUBLISH' option in a simple and cost-effective process over which you have total control. This enables a writer to choose their own cover, target their audiences to align with their chosen genre, and most significantly bypass the traditional barriers to publication, and the gatekeepers who operate to block them.

Traditional publishing is costly, both in time and money, and comparatively inflexible in the choices it offers authors who wish to micromanage their own work. Imagine being able to cut through the possibility of rejection by grumpy old publishing houses, fast track through the long waiting time for approval of your manuscript, avoiding the stresses of dealing with a nit-picking editorial process, and start pushing out your work into the world wide web, being able to track its progress every step of the way, cheered on by your friends and admirers.

People who follow this path to self-publishing glory speak using the language of action, conquest and violence: they 'crack the code', they penetrate the mystery, they 'conquer' the Amazon charts, they 'kill' the Goodreads ratings, their meteoric rise to fame makes waves that rock the known world, etc. 

The narrative of youthful energy and forceful vitality is definitely an appealing one. And creativity itself is, of course, a direct line to God and Goddess. But in the rush to publish, made possible by the myriad options enabled by this digital technology, one of the pre-existing and most significant problems which has operated to block the rise of literary standards in Sri Lankan writing in English is likely to intensely escalate. That is: the lack of an editing process which could make a good book great, and a great book an enduring classic.

The fiery exuberance and self-assertive drive required to write a narrative, to bring an idea into form and into emergence, is a very different energy from that required to edit it: editing beyond the surface level of correcting spelling requires a trained and sceptical eye, sensitive appreciation of what the author is intending to achieve, patience, familiarity with the relevant genre, and sufficient time. In this country, Editors of fiction seem to be hard to find, and these professionals need to make themselves more visible and accessible. Authors, especially young authors, often feel that they would not be able to afford the skilled developmental and structural editing that their manuscript requires. These writers thus create reading groups of personal friends and beta readers who offer feedback and response without a fee, as a favour, and then edit their work themselves, with mixed results.

And they use digital means to create their own readership: via social platforms including Facebook pages, Instagram updates, Snapchat and Twitter. They self-create a community of fans by informing their followers of each stage of their writing process, from sneak peeks at their private notebooks and sketchpads, through conversations about their inspirations and research, through stylised confessions of their own emotional highs and lows, right through to interactive opportunities offered to their fans to choose the cover art, and the final 'reveal' of the book itself, in its multiple accessible formats.
This strategically creates empathy and goodwill, as the readership is invested in the outcome, 'liking' and 'commenting' interactively every step of the way. And then the birds and the bees come in: Tweet and Twitter updates, to generate buzz. More Snapchat and Instagram shots of where to buy the book, updates on how it is going, thanks to all the loyal supporters of the crusade, and screen shots of Goodreads reviews, truncated due to constraints of space.

Enticements and reader magnets are offered to 'get the reader in' - free short chapters, free prequels - which then make the reader want to come in a little further, and invest in your dream. It is a facsimile of friendship behavior, and it works to create the peer acceptance and tribal identification that is crucial to publishing success in the digital world. True or false? Noise and brilliant branding obscure the substance of the matter, and gloss the text itself with apparent allure. Many of the awards we read about have been generated by peer approval, solicited support and recognition of an author's profile: their creation of their own visibility via successful platform-building. 

As one writer recently expressed it, who cares if the reader likes you or your work, as long as they buy it? At point of sale, it's mission accomplished, and onto the next one. And then the awards, the long lists and the short lists and the ceremonies and the gold and silver stickers on the limited edition print copies. The marketing carnival with its crusade-like parading goes ever on. But the literary quality of the work often decreases in value, because the focus is on marketing rather than creation of a high quality piece of writing.

To misquote Aldous Huxley, in Brave New World, we are now seeing 'the principles of mass production at last applied to literature'. It is notable that many of the emerging writers today are working day jobs in the fields of marketing, advertising and information technology. This certainly gives them sharp skills but also inevitably creates a mindset which commodifies the literature they produce, from pre-production onwards.

The DIY publishing culture, despite its many positive aspects, runs the risk of adding exponentially to the volume of forgettable reading matter being produced throughout the world, every month of every year. The push and pull of digital platforms, their siren call (minimum effort for maximum outcome) and the impetus to conquer and dominate them create deadlines which act like whips driving these writers on.

In their excitement to create original work, bypassing not just gatekeepers who they see as mired in the past, and 'irrelevant' if they do not share their own self-affirming vision, some of these writers will be dismissing - in ignorance, arrogance and impatience - the necessary refining processes of editing and considered review which could enable the production of a substantial literary achievement.

The test? At point not of sale or purchase, but of reading: the discovery by the reader of a book which is good enough to stand independently of the fulsome and gushing 'reviews' by true believers which inevitably accompany the launching of books, in this often superficial global literary culture in which we live and read - and write.

Theoretically, now that the process of publishing is so streamlined and effective, the time saved means that the best of both worlds should surely now be possible: writers could create their own time frames, take the time to find Editors they can work with, and produce work for readers who are not just friends and supporters, or target audiences being marketed a commodity,  just another number in a spread sheet of algorithms and performance measurements.

Each work would actually be worth its weight in gold, at the point at which it is sold.

It is a truism that, for dedicated writers, each work they produce is their baby, their 'own darling child'. My concern is that, by rushing (however understandably) through perceivable barriers to publishing, writers today are inducing their own children far too prematurely. The hastening of this vital process could result in significant loss of quality, and an undernourished final literary product, successfully sold to readers by a marvellous marketing campaign.

There is no excuse, in this day, and this digital age, for producing a substandard product. Reader, before clicking 'PURCHASE' at the end of the guided digital process which herds you into buying the latest 'hot' book - be aware that, at the heart of all the hype, there may be a work of literature which could have been better written, dropping with your willing co-operation into your virtual shopping basket. 

Dr. Devika Brendon is an Academic, Editor, Critic, Reviewer and Creative Writer.