Sir, - In his "Bookworm" section (April 6th), John Boland did some straight talking about the "foisting upon us of semi literate twaddle" masquerading today as Irish writing. How right he is. How right. As he says, there is far too much churned out our national reputation as writers is being cheapened, debased. Books, alas, have become economic units, writing an industry; find an idea, formulate a plot, type it up, package it, and flog it in the marketplace.
There is a notion abroad, too, that if one has achieved any fame or notoriety in politics, crime, sport, rock music, then one must do a book and fill us in on the boring details. Or if you are a victim of any sort, if you suffer from a cancer, manic depression or alcoholism you must tell your story, warts and tears and all; better still if you are marginalised, a lesbian, an IRA bomber, a heaven sent healer. Then you're in business - write that book.
If you can get on a chat show, pour out your heart about losing your virginity on the sands of Ballyheigue, or recall how your lunatic Da belted you long ago round the country kitchen. You will sell your book, you are on the bookshelves, you are a writer. Aosdilna, here you come!
While one does not wish to be unsympathetic to those who have had or still have great pain in their lives, or intolerance of those on the margins, nevertheless one wonders if being there is sufficient to make someone a writer. Yet this seems to be the case. You have only to browse through the Irish writing section of any bookshop to see that beside Trevor, McGahern, Moore, McCabe, Healy, you will find Rose, and Alice, and Kathleen, and Ferdia, and Patricia.
John Boland blames greedy publishers for convincing wannabee writers that they have some modicum of talent, and thus are contributing to the devaluation of Irish writing, but what about the book reviewers? No, sooner has a new economic item, appeared on the shelves than we, are treated to a review, usually favourable, exhorting us to "explore with the writer the darker area of Irish life" or to "re live the simple idyllic days of yore." Would it not be better to treat these new writers as one would pushy children anxious to perform their party piece for you suffer it but don't encourage it? They will only repeat it.
Why not find a reviewer honest enough, courageous enough, ruthless enough to tell the truth, to say what needs to be said: "The characters in this book are unbelievable, the plot totally contrived, and as for the writing, it would merit a "could do better" from a junior cert pupil"? Cruel, yes; discouraging, of course, but that reviewer will be striking a blow for Irish writing. The book will sink, will be forgotten, but will not have sullied our literary reputation.
In this climate of book fever, can one bear to remember something Kalka said about the power of a book "to break up the frozen seas within us? " He should be living at this hour! Yours, etc.,
Lynbrook, Glasheen Road, Cork.