Several months ago I purchased a paperback book in a local retail shop.  I did not pay full price; the book was on special offer.  When I arrived home with the volume my mother-in-law was horrified at this fresh evidence of my boundless extravagance.

She began by asking why I had bought a book.  I said that I was about to go on a long train journey and wanted something to read.  She replied that I could have borrowed something from the library.  If I was trying to avoid the bother of returning a book on time, I could have bought a book from a charity shop for only one or two pounds.

Then mother-in-law decided that as I had already wasted my money, I should mitigate my offence by ensuring that as many people as possible read the book.  After my husband, offspring, siblings and friends had finished with the volume, I could give it to a charity shop.

The book that I had so thoughtlessly purchased was an autobiography.  As I read it, I came to see the author as quite a decent fellow, and began to wonder whether he didn’t deserve better treatment.

Of course a writer who has had a book published has (in most cases) been paid.  Usually the publisher will have made an advance payment to the writer and agreed to pay a percentage of the sales once a set number of copies have been sold.  Surely this is extremely generous compared to what might be paid for (for example) a shirt. Making a shirt is hard work and requires skill – but if I make a shirt I can only sell it once.

The difference is that I could buy a pattern to make a shirt.  I would not have to start by coming up with an original idea.  I could set up a workshop and employ several people to make shirts, whereas every piece of writing must be unique if it is to have any value.

But I wonder if the current popular view is that writing is in itself of no value, as there is so much available for no cost to the reader.

But the fact remains that writers need to eat.

As it happens, the author of the book that started my thought process is now deceased.  Possibly he wished for the money earned by his writing to be a legacy for his children and grandchildren, but it will cause the writer no harm to have his book given away.

It appears that society now has an expectation that entertainment, or at least books, newspapers and music should all be available at no cost.

In London the last daily newspaper for the city, the Evening Standard, is now given to commuters at no charge.  The idea is that the newspaper can be funded entirely from advertising.

Similarly, most of us who write for websites receive no direct payment for our writing.  We write because we enjoy it, or in the expectation of receiving some income from advertising.

I do not believe that there was ever a golden age for writers; it has always been difficult to actually make a living from writing.  But it had become more difficult because of the culture of free access to information and entertainment.

I also wonder whether some writers corrupt the quality of their efforts in an attempt to increase their earning from advertising.  For example, do Internet writers make an effort to include potentially lucrative keywords at the expense of clarity or aesthetically pleasing writing?

Just in case you are wondering about the book that I purchased, it was ‘Miracles of Life’ by J.G. Ballard.  This is a summary of what I thought of it:

When JG Ballard learned that his cancer was terminal he determined to write his autobiography.  His situation gives the narrative a sense of urgency, but Ballard’s genius as a storyteller makes every word count.  Of course it helps that his early life in Shanghai was exotic compared to most lives today; his teenage years were rendered dramatic by invasion and internment. He tells his story with great enthusiasm, recounting it more as adventure than a dangerous and frightening time.  

After the war he was repatriated to England, a country he that he knew through AA Milne, ‘Just William’ and repeated stories.  He gives a vivid description of his disappointment at finding post was England derelict, dark and half-ruined.  

JG Ballard attended The Leys School, Cambridge, and made more than one attempt at finding a career.  He eventually made a very happy marriage, and embarked on his successful career as a science fiction writer.  

Tragically his wife died suddenly when their 3 children were very young.  He chose to raise the children by himself, and writes that the years with his young children were the best of his life.  

The chapter about his experience as a single parent was my favourite part of the book: it was so refreshing to read an account by someone who took positive pleasure from time with children.  

The whole book was entertaining and interesting; I never felt the urge to skip paragraphs or pages (or even chapters) as I have often done when reading autobiographies.  Even though I do not usually read science fiction, I now want to read more by JG Ballard.

If this very brief review makes you interested in reading the book, I hope that you will actually buy a copy!