With this observation of the British publishing scene, MobyLives introduces a new UK correspondent, Ben Myers. You may have seen his criticism in The Guardian (or numerous other places). He’s also got a novel coming out from Picador next year, which has him highly attuned to the novels coming out in the UK — well, today ….

Autumn is in the post. You can feel it. The air has sharpened and the leaves are curling up like little mammals. Here in rural Yorkshire in the north of England —- deep in Bronte and Ted Hughes country –  a place I recently moved to after twelve years living on the claustrophobic estates of London, the seasonal shift demands a change in priorities. The scavenging of fire wood becomes a daily obsession and your wardrobe suddenly contains multiple pairs of long johns.

And there are the books. With winter on the way books take on a whole new meaning. Because books are as important as the logs that will heat you. Their effect can be similar — only books warm you from the inside. They will see you through the long nights and if they’re rubbish you can always use them to fuel the fire. So just as the first green leaves turn orange and the Arctic wind changes direction, I find myself stocking up on books. Some I tend to re-visit each winter —- books by Mikhail Bulgakov, Orkney writer George Mackey Brown, maybe a bit of Thoreau —- while others come from the stock pile of books as big as the log pile that sits in the shed with the mice.

The publishing world understands the relationship between the colder seasons and literature. I know they know this because on one day alone this week there will be 800 new books to choose from in the UK, including — so I am told — all the Christmas best-sellers. I can’t speak for the US, but over there ‘Christmas best-sellers’ is the code-word for ‘lame celebrity, stocking-fillers cash-ins’. Books by twats off the telly, basically. Books for households that contain one book -— last year’s lame celebrity, stocking-filler cash in. By twats off the telly.

If this sounds snobbish it is because I am a snob. A left-leaning, broke, state-educated, punk-loving snob; but a snob nonetheless. And I am also a writer struggling to get heard above the din being made about the latest teary confessional / crash diet guide / ghost-written ‘tweenage’ novel by a pneumatic airhead more famous for getting her formidable norks out in the daily tabloids.

It’s not their fault -— blame should be laid at the feet of the conservative-minded folk that control the British book publishing world, a place that I imagine is much like it is everywhere else: an alien territory to most readers and writers. A marble palace high up in a hill just beyond the horizon. No roads lead to it. Entrance is by invitation only. It lives solely off cheap boxed wine, canapés and the blood of naïve, virginal writers. It sleeps on a bed of shredded manuscripts.

My point is this: the publishing industry is in a pretty poor state because the publishing industry doesn’t know what it is doing. Too long it has rested on its laurels, signing generic clichéd tat. Chick lit. Unfunny comedy books with quirky titles. Sub-Dan Brown —- and that’s pretty low — cash-ins. You know: meaningless crap that real people don’t bother with. And while regular book shops are doing badly in the UK, bargain bin, end-of-line bookshops are positively thriving.

Which is good news for some of us. Because deep in the worst recession of many of our lifetimes, it is more economically viable to buy a stack of novels than it is to buy the equivalent in fire wood. Books will be keeping me warm this winter. Literally. It’s good to know that something good will come of those over-inflated six-figure advances they were handing out to semi-literate pop stars, models and indefinable celebrities a couple of years back.

Chuck another rages-to-riches-to-rags cocaine confessional on the fire, Jeeves!