According to yesterday’s edition of The New York Times, in an article entitled “Self-Publishers Flourish as Writers Pay the Tab”, this is a common impulse. Almost everyone thinks he or she has a brilliant novel dormant in the subconscious. Once a little effort is spent sitting down and writing the thing, the beloved project will sweep across the nation, changing minds and hearts in a furious blast of praise and appreciation, and the humble writer will never have to work their stupid day job again.

Call me an elitist, but I think I prefer the time when publishing a novel seemed impossible. Now, anyone with the willingness to inflict his written opinions on the public can add to the pile of published dreck waiting for the incinerator or recycling bin. Volumes of bad poetry pour from Lulu.com’s presses, and it seems every author contacts us asking if we can add Crocodiles I Have Loved, the new book of stunning genius from previously unpublished author Joe Schmoe, to our catalog.

The sad truth is: not everyone can write. Each of us without fail thinks we’re the one to produce that work– witty, engaging, meaningful, something that transcends genre or specific population and speaks to everyone. And I suppose it’s a beautiful thing when anyone with a voice, a story to tell, and a penchant for self-expression can get his work out there. But is it worth filling our shelves with works that belonged in the back of the sock drawer? Is it worth going from the equivalent of a newspaper, wherein every piece you see has been edited and approved by professionals from the idea stage to final copyediting, to blogs, where you could have a Shakespeare typing on the same website used by teenage girls to talk about their middle school crushes?