The idea that rude publishers force future literary stars to self-publish sounds like codswallop

There were some house rules: no film scripts, plays or poetry. Want to publish a children’s book? Not with us you don’t. A book on self-help? Give us a break.

For an arrogant almost graduate with an inflated sense of literary worth, it seemed the perfect job. Read the stuff the great unwashed think is a future bestseller then, with nary a thought for the pain it would cause, tell them what utter drivel it was and why, even if they were the last words on earth, you still wouldn’t read them.

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