Did  y’all read the recent article by Ursula K. Le Guin in Harpers?
She has a thing or two to say about the world of publishing. 

Whoa, boy.

Here’s one of the many close-to-the-bone observations she makes about the state of the industry:

“…the relationship of art to capitalism is, to put it mildly, vexed. It has not been a happy marriage. Amused contempt is about the pleasantest emotion either partner feels for the other. Their definitions of what profiteth a man are too different.” 

You know what really kills me about this? 
It reminds of something I believed at 22.
And 28. 
And then I spent years convincing myself otherwise. 
Partly because I wanted to pursue my own passion and, at the same time, have health insurance with a decent deductible. I wanted to believe that I could; that the world valued what I valued enough to make it work.

I mean, is that so crazy? 

But I’ve come back around to Ms. Le Guin’s way of thinking. 
I still want the passion and the perks (pedestrian though they may be), but not at any cost.

We all deserve our just rewards, but if the mediation between the separate beds of art and commerce is going to result in homogeneous schlock printed on thin paper with bad ink and sold out of one great big book stall in the sky, no thanks. Not only do you and I not want to write that stuff, but people don’t want to read it. 

Maybe it’s why the folks cited in Le Guin’s article are falling asleep instead of turning the pages with wild abandon. 
Which is, forgive my bossiness, how we oughta write…