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“No publisher. No agent. They had told him that sales had not been good.

Markets had changed. Same old shit.

Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.

Something different was needed, apparently. Something original but easily pigeon-holed.

Books by celebrities were very popular. Models, second-rate comedians, has-been soap stars (those that weren’t trying to make it in the music business), even footballers were writing books. Any talentless

cunt with enough money to pay a ghost-writer and a good editor was capable of churning out a book and earning shit-loads of cash for it.

And then there were the household names who milked their own brand of repetitious bullshit while fawning publishers knelt at their feet to push ever-larger cheques into their grasping hands.

Add to these the comfortable middle-class writers who lectured on real life from the security of knowing it was a world they would never have to inhabit.

People with millions in the bank who crowed that money wasn’t everything, who complained about invasion of privacy during their six-page interviews, who were proud of how they’d been single mothers or record-shop employees or advertising men before they’d made it big. And who whined about how hard they’d had to work to get published when all it took was a generous publisher and an even more generous publicity department.
Ward despised them all. Even when he’d been successful he’d despised them. The whole fucking business stank. It stank of cowardice. Of duplicity. Of betrayal.”
― Shaun Hutson, Hybrid