Last Spring, Thomas had a bad experience while being murdered. He did not take kindly to it, for a start, and even less so when realising he’d been coerced into participation. A radio interviewer had persuaded him to be a guest on a programme under the premise of discussing his books, before systematically tearing Thomas to pieces and hanging the dripping slips of meat over the microphone while making insulting comments about the stunned and bleeding mess dribbling on the chair beneath it.
“Thomas,” the interviewer said, before any formal flesh-tearing had begun, “your writing is essentially dreadful. Your plots are nonexistent, the characters about as believable as your sense of fashion and the extent of over-writing borders on masturbatory levels of self-indulgence. So why did you make things even harder for yourself by writing in a genre that doesn’t even exist?”
The question is an important one, especially for an aspiring writer with no friends, no readers and an unhealthy dislike of triangles. To write books without considering how they’ll be categorised is such a fundamental marketing faux par that it’s a wonder Thomas was asked on the programme at all. As a consequence of this oversight, his Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels float around in the amorphous soup of uncatagorisable fiction, along with countless other dubious works, without any chance of finding readership. Thomas’ books fit nowhere. Even when he tried giving printed copies away outside a McDonalds, people weren’t interested. Their question “What’s this?” after Thomas pressed copies into their palms was met with him doing an impression of a thinking goldfish: he had no answer and wet himself. What, then, are these Dooven Books? Adventure? Fable? Mystery? Or just plain rubbish? Sadly, the latter is not an officially recognisable BISAC category. So how will Thomas find readers for the Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels? The answer is that he won’t. It’s as simple as that. Just because a book’s been written doesn’t mean it will be read. And really, considering how dreadful they are, it’s probably just as well. Even if it means he cries himself to sleep each night. Alone.
And the radio interviewer? Thomas ended up punching him very hard in the bollocks and snapping his headphones.
A week later, when he could speak again, the interviewer faxed some suggestions to Thomas regarding niche genres he might consider his Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels worthy of. ‘Shit Fiction,’ was one, as was “No Action Or Adventure”. “Neurotica” was another. He eventually stopped when a testicle loosened.