Truth, the unwelcome stranger
Well, he's published at least a dozen books, with respected publishers, so it suggests that either the great unwashed public has tastes that differ from your own, or that they are not quite as sensitive to the use of the word 'was' as some putative writers are. (I wouldn't read his stuff myself. The silly names put me off straight away.)
I'm not sure where you get the idea that he's bitter, Mistook. He makes the point at the top of his article that he's not whingeing in any way. He has merely come to terms with the fact that publishing is a high-risk, low-margin business, and that that is the reason why they are leery about taking a chance with any writer who doesn't have what it takes to succeed and make money for all concerned. As he says, "successful authors work with their publishers, not against them. After all, both parties want the same thing: to sell truckloads of books." (Agents, too, share in this common dream.)
The article contains more facts than opinions, and one could glean an almost identical set of insights from Uncle Jim's esteemed thread. It's just that when they're laid out end-to-end they make a somewhat morbid read for anyone whose hopes are not tempered with a healthy dose of realistic expectation.
Should one be positive? Of course. That is a philosophy for life, not just writing. Should one kid oneself about one's own capacity to write commercially successful prose? Well, that's a matter of personal choice. Self- delusion is one of mankind's most powerful and endearing features. For some reason, it expresses itself strongly in the field of writing, more so than in most other facets of existence, perhaps because it is so intensely personal.
(The only other comparable activity I can think of is singing. As a play-anything-you-like-in-any-key-by-ear pianist I am often called upon to accompany would-be singers at gatherings, and I am constantly amazed by how many talent-free persons are eager to demonstrate their lack of skill to a captive audience. The world is full of microphone snatchers. It may not surprise you to hear that they always want to sing My Way.)
What are the odds of convincing an agent or publisher that your work is worth their risking several tens-of-thousands of dollars and possibly their career? One in a hundred? That seems to be the generally agreed figure, roughly. Is that a reason to slash your wrists in despair? Nah. It's simply a reminder that you'd better be bloody good at what you do (and consummately professional in every sense) to improve your chances of being selected from a ceiling-high pile of dross, interspersed with some rare examples of quality comparable to your own scribblings.
Does it hurt for Ian Irvine to lay out the dismal statistics for our perusal? Well, it would if he had an unworthy motive, but as a fellow Aussie, a breed renowned for its cheerful optimism combined with an intolerance of fatuous, ego-stroking, worthless, have-a-nice-day bullsh*t, I'm prepared to give him credit for just wanting to tell it like it is.
