A fortnight ago, Jesse Abraham Lucas wrote a blog post that resonated with me. He wrote about what PulpRevvers call GroffinGate, in which an Internet commentator named Groffin said (among other things):
And for all your glorification of the insular and self-aggrandizing indie-literature circuit, you have no minds of comparable skill or prestige, and will not for years and years if ever.
It's a shot aimed squarely at PulpRev. Lucas' response is telling:
That hits me where it hurts. We don't have writers like that. I'm far more optimistic than Groffin about our prospects, but the road to greatness is long and hard, and we don't get there just by saying we're getting there.
Reading Groffin's and Lucas' words, I am reminded of the literary scene of my own country. Last year I wrote at length about why SingLit disappoints me, and there has been no change since.
When I think SingLit, I think of an insular community calling on all Singaporeans to buy singlit because we must support local talent and other such inane reasons. Newspapers and industry leaders partner to promote SingLit, praising the latest SingLit book to the heavens, and whenever #BuySingLit and the Singapore Writers Festival rolls around the marketing machine goes into full swing.
I don't see anyone trying to improve things.