Let me be candid and admit I wouldn't have written this post if my new novel hadn't been published a fortnight ago (plug 1). None the less, I hope that when you reach the bottom of this blog you'll agree that my mentioning my new novel in it (plug 2) does not overly detract from its central theme of describing how and why the book business has become rather dull, even though I hope that my new novel isn't (plug 3).

Last Sunday I went into a bookshop, a link in one of the big retail chains. Entering a bookshop can be a risky business for an author with a new novel out (plug 4) unless his or her ego is in good shape. They contain so many books that unless your new novel (plug 5) is displayed in the front window or else one of those stacked on a table near the front it's hard to imagine their customers even discovering that your book exists (plug 6), let alone purchasing a copy unless they'd arrived intent on doing so.

I shouldn't complain too much: filed under "H" in fiction were six copies of my new novel (plug 7) along with one copy of each of my previous two (these being the ones preceding my new one [plug 8]). It's good that the shop in question thought it worth stacking six copies of my new novel (plug 9) on its shelves, although what if they were the same six as were stacked there two Mondays ago, the day my new novel (plug 10) was published? In other words, what if no one has yet bought a copy of my new novel (plug 11) from that shop? What if such indifference is being replicated all over the land and hardly any of the 26,000 copies of my new novel (plug 12) ordered up by bookshops and other retail outlets of one kind (plug 13) or another (plug 14) are being purchased?

Such anxieties have always plagued authors, especially at those times when a new book of theirs (plug 15) has just come out. But mine plague me more than I would like, just as they do many authors and others in the book-publishing trade. It's all to do with getting noticed, and unless your new novel (plug 16) is one of the shrinking percentage of the titles it produces that publishers put time and effort into promoting these days, there's every chance that your new novel (plug 17) will go unnoticed and further reduce such limited bargaining power as you may have when you offer a publisher your next new novel (plug 18).

Again, given that my new novel (plug 19) has not been advertised, showcased by bookshops in front-of-store positions or included in tempting three-for-two type deals, it hasn't fared all that badly so far. Twenty-six thousand copies (plug 20) is quite respectable. Moreover, it's been given a good notice (plug 21. Scroll down a bit) in The Times, a newspaper that has suddenly and mysteriously soared in my estimation. It also got a three-star review in the Mirror. This signifies "average" and is therefore like being called indifferent by Chris Moyles, but I suppose it will encourage the buying (plug 22) of a few more copies.

Even so, something isn't right in publishing: at least, it doesn't feel right to me. Partly, it's the trade's increasing resemblance to the hamburger industry, with ever more standardised product being sold through ever more standardised high street channels, squeezing out innovation and individuality along the way. Major publishers tend to deny this and, fair enough, it's not the whole story. But they know very well that the supermarkets and high-street chains now hold the whip hand, that profit is the only thing that interests them and that this has knock-on effects all down the line.

A vicious cycle has developed with the retailers increasingly interested in selling replicas of the books that sold well the year before, right down to the packaging (indeed, it sometimes seems that only the packaging interests them). Hence, publishers strive to provide them with more and more of the same and literary agents find that even well-established authors may be rebuffed if their latest offering deviates even slightly from their previous successes. And if it isn't their editor who turns them down, rejection will come from someone in sales and marketing who they'll never meet let alone get to know and is unlikely to have read their outline or manuscript.

Result? The market has become so polarised between bestsellers and the rest (plug 23) that many good ideas for books remain no more than that and perfectly good books (plug 24) receive little corporate support. There is a widespread feeling that the marketing tail now wags the publishing dog and I certainly got that feeling early this year when an email sent from my publisher Headline suggested that for my new novel (plug 25) I change my forename from "Dave" to "David." This is because my new novel (plug 26) is less jokey and more melancholy than my first, my second and my third, and that "David Hill" would convey "more authority". Never mind that I've been "Dave" for close on a quarter of a century. This, apparently, counted for nothing compared with the questionable benefit of some short-term, re-branding stunt.

I'm not all arty and precious about this. Book publishing is a business, not a charity. And I'm not advocating more corporate backing for exacting or so-called "literary" fiction over the commercial or "popular" kind. After all, my new novel (plug 27) is more of the low-culture category than the high and, in any case, I'm a popular culture guy: like some of the greatest pop music, I believe that some of the greatest fiction ever written was the formula pulp of its time. That said, certain vital life signs now seem lacking in the book publishing game. One is the conviction that if a book is good, whatever its style or genre, that is the most important reason to look after it and its author. Another is a sense of mischief, of adventure, of fun. There is, says a friend who's been in the business for 30 years, less scope than there was for the instinctive gut-reaction that says, "this is something new and exciting and we should give it a try."

Well, it's their party. Let them get on with it and I'll join in as best I can. Too often, though, the publishing establishment seems to comprise a curious blend of old-fashioned aesthetic snobbery and a desperate worship of the bottom line. How can it be bypassed? How can new writers get published and those who, like me, have modest or mid-range readerships develop and survive? I find I'm looking more towards the blogosphere. There I can publish extracts from my new novel (plug 28) and try out barking mad short story ideas. I also get acquainted with interesting fellow authors whose work I didn't know before and deserve to be read more widely or who were found by a publisher because they wrote a blog about their novel. I find I've joined a community of fellow bloggers who write books, some of whom have reviewed my new novel (plug 29), are carrying it on their sidebars (plug 30) and have offered to host me on a sort of virtual book tour, though it won't be organised as skilfully as this one. One political blogger friend has even launched a name-and-shame campaign on my behalf, urging his readers to denounce online any bookshop they come across that is failing to stock my new novel (plug 31).

It's hard to say how significant, if at all, such blogosphere support is proving in terms of raising the profile of my new novel (plug 32) but it's certainly very enjoyable. And you feel there has to be some untapped potential out there, some outline of a new dimension to book publishing based around communities of writers and readers - online book groups of a sort - that may or may not ever make hard business sense, but could at least offer an alternative to the current, dulling dominant model and enable more writer's' voices to be heard. Indeed, some of the necessary ingredients may already be in place. If nothing else it seems to offer working authors the promise of being more in charge of their own work, and that is something most of us would like to be.

So, anyway: please buy my new novel (plug 33).