By Halcyon Orvendal
Once upon a time, books were crafted — not just written. They resulted from long hours, countless revisions and a testament to both language and storytelling. But today, something has changed. Book publishing is at breakneck speed, transforming into a commercialized machine that seems to care more about virality than value. The rise of authors like Colleen Hoover — who at one point outsold the Bible — clearly indicates that the tides have turned. What we are witnessing is the fast fashion-ing of books, where quantity trumps quality, and trends drive creation more than timelessness.
The comparison to fast fashion is not just poetic — it is painfully accurate. Just as the clothing industry was overtaken by mass-produced disposable pieces designed to sell quickly and be discarded just as fast, the publishing world is now flooded with titles designed for the algorithm rather than the ages. Marketing machines and social media platforms now wield more influence over what we read than critics or literary merits do. In this new era of publishing, books are not just a story — they are a product made to sell fast.
Nowhere is this shift more visible than in the recent explosion of extremely commercialized literature. Colleen Hoover’s “It Ends With Us” is the poster child of this movement. The book owes much of its success to social media rather than traditional media or critical acclaim. Its ascent to cultural phenomenon status did not requite literary prizes or long-term word-of-mouth legacy. Instead, it rode the wave of emotionally charged snippets, curated online aesthetics and influencer-driven buzz.
Compare that with publishing in decades past, when books could take years to gain momentum. Classics were often slow burns, nurtured by loyal readership, respected critics and an editorial process emphasizing longevity. Writers like Toni Morrison, Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood were not overnight sensations — they became facets of the literary canon because their work endured. Today, the book cycle is much shorter — rise, peak, disappear — much like last season’s shoddily-crafted boots.
The volume of books being released today is staggering — and unsustainable. In 2023, the U.S. tradebook industry pulled in $29.9 billion in revenue, an increase from its $28.2 billion peak in 2019. As revenue drops, the number of published books continues to rise. Thanks to both traditional publishers and self-publishing platforms, the market is becoming saturated.
Recently, there has been a noticeable surge in celebrity memoirs — many of which seem less like heartfelt reflections and more like quick cash grabs combined with clout. From reality TV stars to social media influencers, public figures are landing book deals and churning out memoirs filled with recycled anecdotes, curated vulnerability, ghostwritten fillers and promotional fluff. Often, these memoirs are thin on substance, more focused on monetization.
With this surge has come a decline in production quality. Books are rushed through editing phases, bound with flimsy materials and shipped out to meet demand sparked by online trends. A recent example is Rebecca Yarros’ “Fourth Wing” series, which drew criticism not only for its lackluster storytelling but also for its physical construction — pages falling out of cheap glue bindings and warped spines. Much like a fast-fashion dress that unravels after two washes, these books are built for immediate consumption, not for the bookshelf.
Driving much of this phenomenon is BookTok — the aptly named corner of TikTok dedicated to books — where influencers, many of them young women, reign supreme. It has redefined how books are discovered and consumed. Short-form video reviews often focus less on writing style and more on “spicy scenes,” emotional cliffhangers and love triangles. The result? Publishers are now mining BookTok trends for marketable formulas. If a dark romance with the enemies-to-lovers trope is trending, expect a flood of them on shelves in six months.
But the cost of this trend-driven publishing model is the rise of what we might call “disposable literature.” Books that flare up, dominate social media feeds and promptly go out of season and vanish. Their popularity is real — but ephemeral. Just as fast fashion relies on the thrill of the new, BookTok encourages constant turnover. What was hot last month is outdated today. In the rush to capitalize on trends, publishers neglect books that do not fit neatly into the mold — even if they are brilliant.
This raises a larger question: What does it mean to be a writer in the digital age? Once, writing was an art rooted in solitude, discipline, and revision, often unfolding over a lifetime. Today, the role of the writer is fractured. Writers are expected to be content creators, social media strategists, and market-savvy influencers. Their worth is too often measured not by the depth of their prose, but by their visibility and marketability. Independent publishing presses resist this trend. They create space for writing that prioritizes voice over virality, experimentation over algorithms. Virginia Woolf, who co-founded Hogarth Press to maintain creative control over her work, understood the power of independence in publishing. Like Woolf, we must return to the act of writing itself — not as a means to an end, but as an art. Only then can books transcend commodification and speak with urgency and intimacy.
Of course, not every viral book is shallow, in the same way that not every old-school novel is a masterpiece. But there is a growing pressure on authors to write with speed rather than depth, to feed the machine rather than the soul. Stories that once simmered for years now sizzle for seconds on screen. What is lost is the nuance, the texture, the unexpected — the elements that make literature worth returning to.
Readers hold more power than they realize. If we want better books that last, challenge us and stay with us, we need to be more mindful of what we consume. It is not about avoiding BookTok favorites or rejecting all popular fiction — it is about the reader pausing to ask if a book is popular because it is good, or if its success is dependent on fitting trends.
The publishing industry may eventually hit a wall, much like how fast fashion is now confronting its environmental and ethical consequences. Already, some readers are expressing fatigue. The backlash against overhyped titles, the growing interest in “slow reading,” the return to indie bookstores; These are all signs of a potential reckoning.
Still, the question remains: Will the industry course-correct and recenter on the craft, or will it double down on its current model of producing books like SHEIN produces clothes — cheap, trendy and ultimately forgettable? The future of reading — and writing — may very well depend on how we answer.
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