The Irish Times has already written a fair assessment of the meeting that took place on the future of the Irish Writers’ Centre. The article reflected the fact that the suggestions made by the public were largely expressions of frustration, or expressions of goodwill, and were not, in my opinion, things that the board could vote on when they meet on July 14.

(But since I have no knowledge of the agenda of that meeting, I’m only speculating.)

I think this unproductive, poorly attended meeting, without any striking ideas, is a result of the fact that people have lots of answers but no questions.

Some good ideas:

Conor Costick, a teacher at the Centre, said the Centre ought to see itself as more of a hub for the provision of services rather than a provider itself.

Declan Meade, publisher of the Stinging Fly, said the Centre ought to be reaching out to organisations and letting them innovate in the space that the Centre provides.

A woman from Poetry Ireland said the Centre needed a business plan.

A woman from the Abbey Theatre said there needed to be tighter links to theatre.

A woman who is doing translation or something-or-other said the Centre needed a better website and could look into EU funding if it supported European writers.

These were all good, solid enough recommendations, but I couldn’t help thinking, What in the world were those people doing there? The Stinging Fly, the Abbey Theatre, and Poetry Ireland – I would have thought these organisations had already been consulted. Perhaps they were consulted, and, like me – I’d made my recommendations – were there to hear what others had to say.

I suppose, if I am to be perfectly honest, I went to confirm my suspicion that there really is no answer, because writing has moved beyond the question of, Why write? And has moved completely into an obsession with, How do I get published?

I wanted to prove to myself that my evaluation of literary society (I nearly gag when I write things like that) was correct. I found, in the majority of suggestions, exactly what I’d come looking for: really what writers want is not development, not improvement, but publication. If only there were a place to go to meet people who will tell them how to get published, they would become happy. It is like they think somewhere there is a smoky and jade-green brothel of agents and publishers in which they can go and smoke opium and be adored and fought over – if only people would recognize their genius.

One woman asked if they could get someone from Eason’s in to tell them what the anatomy of a bestseller was. If this is what the Irish Writers’ Centre becomes, no good writer will ever want to be associated with it. It will become a ghetto of talentless, second-rate poets whose only audience are themselves.

On top of this, people urged the Centre to get rid of the foundation classes (i.e., Beginners’, Intermediate, Advanced) presumably because it is a better idea to stop teaching people an appreciation of good books and start helping them write shit books – or running masterclasses that avoid the issue of learning as a foundation.

I watched some masterclasses once on BBC4, in which the classical pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim worked with really talented young professional pianists. That seemed like a pretty good masterclass.

But one can imagine the pressure Carlo Gebler and Jack Harte – the two men who led the discussion, and the men largely in charge of revitalising the Centre – must be under to create a Centre that will fulfil the hopes and dreams of the desperate and in-pain. When asked what I thought, I simply suggested they ought to shoot high instead of low – to create something that celebrates good writing instead of cuddling bad writing. But that is easier said than done. Because now they have to make money, and lots of it.