Literature: Lost in Facebook Fame

Why Ego, Mediocrity, and Facebook Praise Are Holding Writers Back?

Sindhi literature is trapped in a cycle of mediocrity, dominated by uninspired love stories, fragile egos, and unearned praise on social media. With shallow plots, poorly crafted characters, and an aversion to constructive criticism, writers and readers alike must confront these issues to revive the true spirit of literary excellence.

A satirical depiction of a modern writer lost in social media praise while ignoring the depth of true literature. —Image copyright © Nevalor Books.

Sindhi literature today has become a parade of mediocrity, dragging itself through repetitive, uninspired love stories. Writers seem shackled to the same tired trope: a doomed romance with a woman painted as the villain, her choices dissected, her voice silenced, and her character vilified as the root of all misfortune. Writers seem allergic to originality, clinging instead to tired clichés that lack not only creativity but also basic literary integrity. The questions remain: how did we end up in a literary swamp where banality reigns supreme? What is it about Sindhi writers that they cling so desperately to the lowest-hanging fruit?

The current crop of writers exhibits a shocking lack of effort and understanding. Their language is sloppy, riddled with errors, and at times barely coherent. Plots are flimsy, half-baked sketches that stumble from one predictable point to another without coherence or purpose. Characters are flat and unconvincing, like cardboard cutouts, either impossibly virtuous or cartoonishly evil, with no complexity to make them relatable. Heroes are painted in glowing, unrealistic hues and villains reduced to crude stereotypes. Dialogue reads like it’s been scraped together from awkwardly translated soap operas, devoid of rhythm, wit, or authenticity. Poetry, meanwhile, has degenerated into a free-for-all where free verse often means an absence of thought or effort, and the few attempts at structure are laughable in their lack of discipline.

The tragedy doesn’t end here. Many of these writers seem to labor under the delusion that a few hastily written lines entitle them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with literary giants like Hemingway, Faulkner, or Joyce. They recoil at the slightest critique, treating every suggestion for improvement as a personal attack. Rather than engage with their shortcomings, they lash out, often publicly, drowning out the voices of genuine critique with self-righteous indignation. It’s a performance as predictable as their stories—loud, defensive, and utterly fruitless.

Adding insult to injury, Facebook has become the unofficial literary publishing house of Sindhi writers. It’s a bizarrely democratic space where everyone, from the genuinely talented to the utterly talentless, posts their work with a fanfare of self-congratulation. The comments are a spectacle in themselves: waah, lajawaab, behtareen, they cry, regardless of whether the writing is remotely good or an unedited rant posing as literature. It’s as though the collective literary conscience has decided that every scribble is worthy of praise, and genuine critique is nothing short of blasphemy.

What lies at the heart of this decline? For one, an overwhelming arrogance has infected the literary scene. Writers crave instant gratification—applause without effort, praise without merit. Social media platforms have replaced literary forums, where shallow flattery masquerades as constructive feedback, and anyone with a keyboard and a fragile ego fancies themselves a literary icon. Moreover, the cultural and intellectual stagnation of Sindhi society has limited exposure to global literary movements, trapping writers in a bubble of outdated ideas and inferior execution.

This isn’t just a failure of individual writers; it’s a collective failure of the literary community. Publishers churn out substandard work, readers accept mediocrity, and critics shy away from delivering the harsh truths that could spur change.

So, where do we go from here? First and foremost, writers need to put down their pens and pick up books. Reading widely and deeply is not optional; it’s the foundation of good writing. Writers must engage with ideas beyond their immediate surroundings, exposing themselves to diverse perspectives, forms, and styles. Writing workshops and mentorship programs should be revived to provide aspiring authors with guidance and constructive criticism.

The literary community must also foster an environment where criticism is encouraged, not shunned. Genuine feedback should be welcomed, and fragile egos set aside in favor of growth. Social media, while a useful tool for sharing work, must not replace the rigorous process of proper editing, revising, and honing one’s craft. Instead of settling for the shallow validation of Facebook comments, writers should strive to produce work that stands up to scrutiny.

Readers, too, have a role to play. They must demand better stories and refuse to accept mediocrity as the norm. By supporting high-quality writing and challenging subpar work, readers can push writers to elevate their craft. Similarly, publishers should prioritize quality over quantity, refusing to print work that lacks merit.

The time for excuses is over. We cannot afford to remain trapped in this cycle of mediocrity. Sindhi literature is not beyond saving, but the road to revival demands effort, honesty, and humility. Writers must rise above their egos, readers must raise their expectations, and critics must stop pandering to mediocrity. It’s time to end the literary complacency and rediscover the art of storytelling—not as a self-congratulatory act but as a craft that reflects the richness of human experience. Writers must look beyond their comfort zones. Only then can it hope to rise from the ashes of its current decay.