The writing world has no shortage of geniuses. At least, that's what you'd think if you listened to writers talking about themselves.
Everywhere you look, there are "important voices", "brilliant new talents" and "writers ahead of their time". Many have agents, publishers, awards and impressive connections. Others have none of these things but remain absolutely convinced that the only reason they haven't succeeded is that the literary establishment hasn't recognised their genius yet.
This is where nepotism becomes particularly damaging.
The obvious problem with nepotism is that connections can give one writer opportunities that another writer never gets. But there is a second problem that is rarely discussed: success can convince the recipient that they earned it entirely through talent.
Someone gets introduced to an editor because their father knows someone. A friend recommends their manuscript. A former university tutor makes a phone call. The manuscript gets read, the writer gets an opportunity, and suddenly that opportunity becomes evidence of literary brilliance.
"I was published" becomes "I am an important writer."
"I won an award" becomes "I am an exceptional writer."
"An influential person likes my work" becomes "The industry recognises my genius."
And once that belief takes hold, criticism becomes remarkably difficult.
A rejection isn't necessarily a rejection. It becomes proof that the publisher didn't understand the work. Poor sales aren't evidence that readers weren't interested. Apparently the readers weren't sophisticated enough. A bad review isn't a bad review either. The critic is jealous, narrow-minded or simply incapable of appreciating something so innovative.
There is always another explanation.
The one explanation that seems hardest to accept is that the writing might simply be ordinary.
That possibility is particularly uncomfortable because writers have an enormous psychological investment in believing that what they produce is special. Writing requires a certain amount of ego. You have to believe your thoughts are worth turning into thousands of words and that strangers should spend hours reading them.
Confidence is useful.
But confidence without self-criticism becomes delusion.
And literary circles can make that delusion worse.
Writers, editors, academics and publishers naturally form networks. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. People recommend people they know and trust. The problem begins when the same networks repeatedly recycle opportunities among the same group of people.
The same writers appear at festivals.
The same names appear in magazines.
The same friends recommend each other.
The same people praise each other's work.
Eventually, reputation starts creating reputation.
A writer becomes important because important people say they are important. Then their importance becomes the reason other people take them seriously.
Nobody necessarily has to conspire. The system can reproduce itself perfectly well through ordinary friendship and professional networking.
The result is a strange literary bubble in which writers can become famous before they have established whether they are actually very good.
And perhaps that is the greatest failure of nepotism.
It doesn't just disadvantage outsiders.
It can also prevent insiders from discovering the truth about themselves.
A writer who receives constant opportunities may never experience enough genuine competition to understand their weaknesses. They may never have an editor tear apart their favourite chapter. They may never have a hundred strangers reject the manuscript. They may never be forced to confront the possibility that something they spent three years creating simply doesn't work.
Instead, they receive encouragement.
Eventually encouragement becomes validation.
Validation becomes reputation.
And reputation becomes perceived talent.
There is only one reliable way to break that cycle: take away the connections and look at the work.
Remove the famous surname. Remove the university. Remove the awards. Remove the agent's praise. Remove the influential friends.
Put the manuscript on a desk anonymously.
Then ask the only question that really matters:
Is it any good?
Not, "Who wrote it?"
Not, "Who recommended them?"
Not, "Who says they're brilliant?"
Just: is it good?
Because literary genius cannot be established by a family connection, a publishing contract or a room full of people congratulating one another.
Those things can open doors.
They can create careers.
They can manufacture reputations.
But they cannot write the book.
And once the reader is alone with the page, the writer's connections disappear.
All that's left is the writing.