So editors grab some slush and throw it against the wall and see what sticks. And it might as well be their friend's slush as yours. They cut their lists and pump-prime the superstars. Like horny frat boys they chuck all their beer money after the sure thing, allocate whole shelves in WH Smith to chasing some of that Terry Pratchett and Danielle Steele ass. While new authors and diversity has gone to the wall, the book industry dies.
Attention spans shorten.
Media's white noise become an insistent modem screech of information overload. Cable channels multiply like porno rabbits. You and your children deserve the magic of Dickens and Tolkien and Lewis Caroll and Ian Fleming and E. Doc Smith and maybe, just maybe, something a little bit more challenging than a Doom Death Match network game. You are going to actively do something to reverse humanity's slow side into illiteracy. You're reading this on the web - reading this.