Books for bros, not women
Jude Cook hopes to address his perceived imbalance in male literature. Photo: File
One thing we can probably safely assume about Andrew Tate and his brigade of men's rights activists is that they probably do not have much time for casual reading, devoted as they are to bringing to the limelight that famously overlooked Y-chromosome demographic.
However, Tate and his band of merry men may doubtless be delighted to learn that starting June 2026, there will be at least one UK publisher committed to fuelling the dreams of male writers only, making one giant in the barren world of men's rights. Or least men's publishing. Conduit Books, founded by British novelist and critic Jude Cook, aims to focus on publishing literary fiction and memoirs exclusively by men.
"This new breed of young female authors ushered in a renaissance for literary fiction by women, giving rise to a situation where stories by new male authors are often overlooked, with a perception that the male voice is problematic," explained Cook to the Guardian.
As a taster for the high calibre of work we can expect from the male sector of human population, as opposed to the presumably frothy airport-novel variety being that is the domain of women, the Conduit Books website promises that the upcoming published material will be "Ambitious. Humorous. Political. Cerebral." Cook himself illustrates his and his fellow men's anguish best when he notes, "Excitement and energy around new and adventurous fiction is around female authors – and this is only right as a timely corrective".
Not all men
Before we award Cook's timely corrective a standing ovation and join him in side-eyeing new and exciting adventurous fiction penned by female authors (unworthy of the attention span of that vanishingly rare commodity: male readers), it is necessary to caution that sadly, it is not time for all men to celebrate. Males born before the nineties can put both their pens and their party hats away, because in addition to dragging sexism back into fashion as a necessary corrective measure, Conduit Books (treading the well-beaten path already paved by stalwarts of the fashion and entertainment industries) also seeks to remain committedly ageist. It is not just any old male writer who will do; Conduit Books' ideal man will be under the age of 35. If you, dear male writer with one foot in the grave, have just blown out the candles on your 36th birthday cake, I'm afraid the prospects are grim.
However, Cook stresses that he is by no means as exclusive as hopeful writers may be led to believe: Conduit Books is wide open for any writers who identify as queer, non-binary, neurodivergent, or persons of colour. Just not men who are too old, or women of any age. Or description.
Down with women
Old age pensioners aside, Cook maintains that granting men such special attention is a necessary measure in the wake of women writers flooding the market over the past 15 years. Whilst he concedes that this renaissance was born in the wake of a male-dominated literary scene in the '80s, '90s and early 2000s, he is determined to swing that pesky pendulum back the other way.
Cook's unspoken question is this: what on earth would possess your average male reader to pick up a book written by a woman? There is no singular answer for this, but Cook's fears are not his alone. As any Harry Potter fan is aware, JK Rowling herself was cautioned against using her first name Joanne when Philosopher's Stone was released in 1997 because her publisher feared that an audience of young boys would be unwilling to read a book penned by a woman. For the same reason, Robert Galbraith, Rowling's pseudonym for the Cormoran Strike books, too, is also decidedly male.
Cook may have had a UK-specific market in mind when he aired his sad, nostalgic thoughts on male representation on the days of yore, but it is certainly true that those prolific men enjoyed quite the reach. Twenty years ago, could any of us set foot at a Karachi thelay wala's stall without being bombarded by those special whisker-thin-paged pirated copies of John Grisham's courtroom dramas or Stephen King's magnum opus on murderous clowns? Judging by the average Pakistani millennial's voracious knowledge of the American legal system's brutal litigious leanings (thank you, Rainmaker and Runaway Jury) or the varying supernatural horrors wreaking havoc upon the hapless residents of Maine (King, this is your moment in the sun), it would be foolish to ignore the global tentacles of male Western authors. Men like King, Grisham, and even Dan Brown (can any of us forget the literature lover's mania for the Mona Lisa circa 2004?) once reigned supreme. And now, to Cook's chagrin, thanks to the likes of Jodi Picoult and Emily Henry, that top spot has been encroached upon by women.
If we need any proof, we need only take a casual glance at this week's New York Times bestselling fiction list (print and E-book combined), which is positively contaminated by female names: Danielle L Jensen, Freida McFadden, Ocean Vuong, Emily Henry, and Kennedy Ryan. Picoult, that queen of modern literary fiction, is not on this week's list, but her 2024 bestselling novel titled By Any Other Name (Cook must have loved this) explored the theme of silenced female voices in history by focusing on the struggles of a modern playwright trying to get her work produced. In other words: with thriller-bestseller magnate Harlan Coben having turned his attention to Netflix instead of churning out more books, male bestsellers are in danger of extinction as women refuse to budge from the top.
Has the world gone mad?
Have we already reached that saturation point where, in an effort to dismantle centuries'-old patriarchy, we have gone so far the other way that, as Cook hints (but does not say), men's rights are being eviscerated? In a world that already contains Tate and his fanclub, it should hardly come as a surprise that the world of literature, too, should turn the spotlight on diminishing male representation. The sacred treasurers of men's rights around the world have always stood guard for their gender, a fact that is beautifully evident in Pakistani dramas glorifying a "working woman" trotting out a five-course meal for her in-laws after a busy day at work.
Cook may have never heard of Pakistani dramas and their utmost regard for the male gender, but he is no wallflower when it comes to looking out for his fellow men. He laments that male-centric narratives such as fatherhood, masculinity and negotiating the 21st century as a man have all taken a backseat as the publishing world's focus remains fixed on women.
Does our hero have a point? Can only a man lure another man into picking up a work of fiction? Is the work of a woman unworthy of being read by a man? Is dick lit the answer to chick lit? Judging by the depleting number of adult males who read fiction by choice, perhaps Cook, the Emmeline Pankhurst of male readers, may have unlocked the only doorway to dragging lit bros back into the light.