There is an absurdity that almost every new writer eventually discovers, yet few ever say out loud.
Publishers want you to be a “finished product.” To already have an audience. Followers. A platform. Recognition. Sometimes even metrics – how many people are already reading you, how many like you, how many are ready to click “buy.”
And at the same time… you are the person without a publisher.
It is like being invited to dinner only if you have already eaten.
And this is where the strange, almost comedic loop begins: in order to be noticed, you must already have been noticed by others.
And if you are the kind of writer who works in more risky, intimate genres – not the “easily marketable” kind, but the kind that gets under the skin, that carries emotional and philosophical weight, what you call “LitPorno” – then the paradox becomes even sharper.
Because this kind of writing is not sold with slogans. It is built slowly – through trust, repetition, and vulnerability. It is not a product you can package before it exists.
But the system often expects exactly that.
“Come to us already proven.”
And then comes the second layer of absurdity – the financial one.
Publishers take the largest share of the book. Not you — the author who created the world, the language, the intimacy, the risk, and the voice that carried the entire story alone in their head for months or years, often also building the first audience.
And this is sold as a “normal distribution of risk.”
But in reality, it looks like this:
You must first be strong enough to be interesting.
Then weak enough to accept the terms.
And this is where the strangest part appears – not economic, but psychological.
The author begins to think like a marketing department even before they have had the chance to simply be an author. To calculate audiences, algorithms, niches, “how this will sell.” And slowly, what began as a sincere impulse turns into a product strategy.
But “LitPorno” as a form does the opposite: it demands honesty, even when it is inconvenient. Even when it doesn’t sell well. Even when it doesn’t fit into spreadsheets.
And the paradox emerges:
The more real the writing is, the harder it is to pass through the system.
The more commercial you make it, the easier it is to accept.
But then it is no longer the same writing.
And perhaps the most absurd part of it all is this: the system both demands that you already be ready, and punishes you for not having been accepted yet so you could become ready.
In that sense, the writer does not begin at zero. They begin below zero – first they must prove that someone else has already recognized them in order to be allowed to be recognized.
And yet people keep writing.
Perhaps because writing does not begin with a publisher or a percentage. But with that quiet, almost stubborn moment when you simply cannot not do it – regardless of whether anyone believes in you yet.