Two weeks ago, the London Book Fair hosted Lit Idol, the literary equivalent of Pop Idol. Designed to spark interest in writers, the event was big enough to attract 1,466 aspiring authors (and merit over 800 words of terms and conditions).

Five judges chose five finalists and 900 people voted online - 25 percent of the total number of voters. The final tally was taken live, and while the finalists sat in front of a spotlight-swept audience, game show music kept all on tenterhooks. The winner was Canadian Paul Cavanagh (pictured), who scored representation by publisher Curtis Brown (whose clients also include Margaret Atwood, Vickram Seth and Fay Weldon).

As good a means as any to find new talent? Maybe. The global version of the old short story competition? Sure. But the Idol angle reinforces the notion that good literature may no longer enough. At least Karen Barichievy didn’t win, given her outrageous first line

Isabella Cunningham-Rowe ground her heel hard into [the man] at her feet and wondered what to have for lunch

even though one of the judges proclaimed it the best first line she had read in years. Ali Gunn of Curtis Brown loved it too; told Barichievy she would take her on as a client and told the audience, 'It’s out-and-out commercial, and there’s no reason to be sniffy about it.'

But it makes LeafSalon wonder if there may be good reason for serious literary authors to get sniffy in this media-slut world. Especially if they’re not young, blonde and quite beautiful. For example, the first book of Cecelia Ahern, the 22-year-old daughter of the Irish Prime Minister, has been snapped up in 23 countries and is No.1 in Ireland, despite savage reviews.

The ultra-lite chick-lit P.S. I Love You is about a series of letters secretly written from the death-bed of a man whose widow is the weepy heroine of the story. His advice runs along the lines of “Go shopping”, “Enter a karaoke contest”, and “Find a job”. Without having read the book, this sounds pretty lame to us. But they’re lovin’ it out there: Hollywood’s bought the rights, already! Arrrgh!

All this is a nicely timed extension of the central theme in a book I’ve just read by Colin Bateman (Divorcing Jack etc.), which came out last year, called Chapter and Verse. A washed-up author can’t get his latest novel published, gets pished one night and changes the name of his hero to that of a woman (engendering strange lesbian sex scenes, always a goer), changes the author’s name to oh, April May, whacks in a pic from an old Playboy calendar and sends it off. The rest you can guess. Comedy ensues as he and his equally dodgy agent try to find a real-life match to do the packed-out readings. (A bit slow to start, since you ask, but some real live laugh-out-loud moments, and actually rather unputdownable in the end.)

So what do we think? Is there a future for books in an increasingly sensation-seeking media? Must authors as be “all-singing, all-dancing and if not, with a sufficiently troubled past to keep the public interested,” as the Observer thinks? Can a good book make it without the full media package? Can a bad book make it with the right one? Yes to both, thinks LeafSalon. And why not.