As a fledgling young writer, I cannot imagine ever really getting to the point at which I feel that I can write on "autopilot". I really admire writers who are consistantly striving to improve their previous book; playfully stretching the normally acceptable bounds of plot and language, instead of allowing themselves to be seduced into plodding along with a routine formula.
Most would describe those writers such as Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, Jodie Picoult, and John Grisham as "successful". Commercially, they are. But on from a literary point of view, I think they all just flipped on the 'auto' switch after their third novels, and climbed into a hammock on the beach, waiting for the next royalty check to arrive. Reading any of their later books is akin to eating a bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese. It's easy, predictable, and comforting.
Yet at the same time their commercial successes makes it possible for less lucrative, and literary writers to be published. So while I most definitely will pass on The Notebook v.17, I appreciate that millions of readers still find the formulaic and bestselling authors pleasurable, because without them, I'm not sure that I would now find myself in the middle of one of the most brilliant novels I have read in many moons, The Bastard of Istanbul.
The moral of the story here is that while I, and many others may constantly lament the amount of drivel that's regularly published, the truth is that this is what's paying the publisher's bills, allowing the house to occasionally expose us to the next truly great read.
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