It’s pretty sad to see Meaniin being shut down, given the significance that it holds within the Australian literary landscape. 

Meanjin, for those unaware, is arguably the peak literary journal in Australia, and has presented a long-running showcase of some of the top talent in the region. Founded in 1940, Meanjin has been the kicking off point for many great writers, and has helped them connect with an array of new readers. And for many authors, it has also provided ballast within the ever-challenging literary waters, in giving them a means to find community, find voice, and set the standard for literary exploration.

But now, its publishers, the (indirectly) government-funded Melbourne University Press (MUP), have decided to end Meanjin, due to poor sales.

Or more specifically (as per MUP Chair Professor Warren Bebbington):

“The decision was made on purely financial grounds, the board having found it no longer viable to produce the magazine ongoing.”

So low sales, which no longer justify MUP’s investment in the publication. Which, given that it’s funded by Melbourne University, which recieves significant government funding, is questionable, particularly when measured against its broader cultural impact, while it’s also notable that the Australian government’s currently seeking new ways to better fund arts projects through its Creative Australia initiative, which has a dedicated (yet strikingly bare) writing specific element that, presumably, would be able to assist in supporting key platforms like Meanjin. But to be clear, the call on this did not involve the government, it’s the MUP board that has made the decision.

It’s disappointing, but it’s also not a huge surprise. The Australian literary sector has been decaying for years, with fewer people willing to commit the time and mental energy into more complex, challenging narratives, thus impacting literary sales, and re-shaping the book industry.

Like all forms of entertainment, books are fighting a losing battle against social media for attention, and literary fiction has arguably suffered the most. Which, reflecting market demand, means that many great books are not being published, and many great writers are simply not getting the opportunities they once would have. At the same time, some authors are also reforming their creative approach in order to fit into the modern market, so they can make a career out of the opportunities that remain.

The end result is a less vibrant literary ecosystem, and a less engaging literary community, which ultimately means a smaller audience for all books, and a more limited scope of concepts and ideas. The loss of Meanjin will only compound this, by giving us one less outlet for high quality writing, and one less entry point for emerging writers looking to test their skills, and find a path into book publishing.

For me, Meanjin was always a lofty goal, a benchmark to prove my literary talent. I submitted a few times, never got published (understandable, considering the names I was competing against for space), but I did make it into many other literary journals and magazines, all of which helped to assure me that I did have the talent, and that I could pursue writing as a career. 

That’s the role such publications serve. Sure, Meanjin was a showcase of the best published authors of the day, but it was also open to submissions from nobodies, people who hoped to get their name out there, and in front of a knowledgeable audience. It was a badge of honor, a prize in itself, and a lifeline for every writer who’s creating in isolation and hoping for their big break. Meanjin was part of the architecture of what had been a consistently over-performing Australian literary industry. And without it, our writing culture will be worse off, in a significant way. 

Which is pretty disheartening, and for aspiring writers, it’s a big blow, in an increasingly challenging writing landscape.

Does that mean that you should abandon your literary dreams, or maybe change what you write for market fit?

Look, there’s always going to be a level of market consideration in any writing, as you need to create stories that are going to resonate with an audience if you ever want to generate sales and make money from your work. But should you abandon literary fiction as a result of the current state?

I would say that you should write what resonates with you, and what best reflects what makes you excited about literature, in the style that you feel best enables you to communicate what you want to say. If you write a story in a style that fits, as you want to tell it, then you’ll feel it as you’re writing. And when you come back to it later, and read what you’ve written, if it then still feels like what you wanted it to be, like something that you’d like to read, then that’s the right voice, the right style, and that’s how you get to the creative expression that best represents your perspective.

Basically, it’s easy to be negative, and if you do choose to take a negative view of things, you’ll find that there’s no end to the indicators that will reinforce that view. That literature is in trouble, that your opportunities are gone, that you have no chance of ever being published. There are far more reasons to avoid a literary career, and if you choose to see things from that perspective, every story like this will underline it even more.

But if you choose to remain true to your passion, to the writing that you love, to the stories that you want to tell, the characters, the settings, etc. If you stay true, then you’ll be on a better path to personal satisfaction and exploration, which, in all probability, is also more likely to reach an audience. 

It’s also worth noting that your personal perspective cannot be replicated. The way that you see things, the way you interpret them, no other person will view things the same, which means that they also can’t subsequently communicate things the way that you can. And if you can hit that resonant frequency, where all of these creative elements align, that’s where the truly great works come from. And you can’t do that without creating in the style that speaks to you.

So while the loss of another literary opportunity is disheartening, it’s not the end of all opportunities. And eventually, readers will come back around. Eventually, publishers and producers will once again realize the true value of great writing, which tools like AI can’t replace, and things will shift.

As a writer, I would advise that your job is to find the voice of your story, and explore that until you feel like you’ve got it right.  

Okay. The time has come to write about writing once again.

Why now? Because I miss talking about writing and literary theory, and I don’t get to do it anywhere else. 

In terms of published work, I’m currently in a state of semi-forced hiatus, because the publishing industry isn’t really looking for what I write. 

That doesn’t mean that it’s bad, necessarily, but right now, thrillers and crime novels (and recipe books) are selling, literary fiction is not. Topical books, books with expanded social commentary, books from people of marginalized backgrounds, these are the types of things that readers, and what remains of the reading audience are seeking out.

Which is good, in many ways, in giving opportunity to a wider scope of writers. But less good for me at present. 

So I don’t have anything on the horizon for publishing, but I do have several manuscripts that I’ve completed to first draft, and several ideas that I’m exploring. Indeed, I write a novel a year, because I love writing, but I’m less attached to the literary industry and the scene type stuff that draws many wannabe authors in.

Of course, if someone offered me a publishing contract, I’d take it, don’t get me wrong. But also, I’m an introvert and a quiet person, and I’m happy to not have to do the circuit. So it’s good and bad.

Though that also means making less money from my fiction work, and ideally, that would be a real career path. But it’s not a realistic one, for almost any author in Australia. The average income for a fiction writer in Australia is $18,200 per year, and that’s probably at the higher end of what most writers make for their fiction work alone. So really, it would be considered a hobby, even for the names that you recognize on the bookstore shelves. 

Yet, even so, I, like many others, write for the love of it, and the need to get these stories out of my head. And things change, literary trends shift, book popularity ebbs and flows. 

Maybe something I write will align with the right trend at the right time at some stage.

But as I say, I still write, I still read as much as I can, and I still like to talk about the craft of writing, and learning how to become a better writer. 

So I’m gonna’ go back to writing about that. 

In some ways, it feels less impactful at this stage, because if my own writing isn’t selling, what can I offer in terms of valuable writing advice? But I do know writing, and what works, in general terms, versus what doesn’t.

And hopefully, if you read along, we’ll both learn some new things.