Some years back a writer told me that he believed, in all sincerity, that any book that achieved commercial success could not possibly be “good writing,” and was, in fact, nothing more than “crap for the unwashed masses.” He went on to assert that most readers were not terribly intelligent or overflowing with good taste—his sole source of evidence being the kinds of books, namely romance, that seemed to make it on the bestseller lists. At which point I said several very naughty things. And kicked some booty.
I bring this up only because Lilith Saintcrow’s recent blog entry reminded me of that conversation. She talks about selling out and the perceived holiness of the “starving artist,” which is all well and good unless you’re that starving artist. Cold hard cash, my pretties, is not a bad thing. And anyone who tries to put you down for making money at doing what you love is just sour grapes.