They call themselves Killer Women – the name, only mildly terrifying, of a collective launched this week by 15 women crime writers. Ostensibly, their purpose is to hold literary events to discuss crime fiction and give fans more opportunities to connect to their work. The group includes MJ McGrath, creator of the Edie Kiglatuk Arctic series, and Erin Kelly, author of the Broadchurch novel.

But I suspect they can’t really talk about their true purpose. Despite the inclusion of Paula Hawkins (author of bestseller The Girl on the Train, tediously dubbed “the new Gone Girl”), they are what publishers often cruelly call “mid-list authors”. This peculiar term means neither debut writer nor JK Rowling-shaped cash cow.

Those two things are what publishing loves best. And increasingly they’re the only things publishing loves at all. Ideally you’re new, with the potential to become an overnight sensation; or something familiar already purchased in vast numbers. If you fall into the chasm between these two categories, and are neither “the next whoever” nor “a household name”, you’re what the Killer Women might call dead in the water (were they far worse writers, of course).

This doesn’t just matter for authors: it matters for readers. With our finite attention spans, and ever more entities vying desperately for those essential digital clicks, investment in established authors who are “excellent but not a celebrity” risks slipping away. And with it, a whole raft of fantastic books.

It’s great that authors are taking matters into their own hands. Heaven knows, they need like-minded souls they can moan to about how much they have to tweet, blog, vlog, Vine, opine and generally be their own marketing department – in addition to the tiny matter of actually writing the books. But I do hope publishers will feel guilty and nervous about this, rather than think: “Oh, yes, let them look after themselves.” Meanwhile, though, who is looking after the readers?

Chiwetel, my everywoman

To the National Theatre to see Chiwetel Ejiofor in Everyman, Carol Ann Duffy’s adaptation of the 15th-century work, directed by Rufus Norris. As I am a person who regularly pulverises my own sofa – shouting, “Why don’t you get some more women on?”, while throwing things at it – I was concerned I would end up staging a retro-feminist protest along the lines of “Why not Everywoman?”

But there was no need to worry. This was a brilliant analysis of everyman as a way of talking intimately, challengingly and refreshingly about the human condition. The diverse cast was as politically correct in its makeup as the script is politically incorrect in its references. And for fans of Anglo-Saxon and plain speech, there was even a strategically placed utterance celebrating the female form, with not a See You Next Tuesday euphemism in sight. Driven by Ejiofor’s explosive, masculine energy, this is an inspiring piece to appease the most rabid daughter of Eve.

Your material girl

I am currently touring the country rehearsing my Edinburgh Fringe show, Say Sorry to the Lady – if “touring the country” can describe a series of clandestine visits to village halls and Women’s Institutes. It’s a show about why we say sorry so often.

I frequently canvass the audience on their views by giving them little cards to fill in anonymously. I ask (a) what they’re sorry about, and (b) who they would like an apology from. Many people want an apology from their parents and from neighbours who have slighted them. Others want to say sorry for humiliating their siblings in childhood. My favourite reply so far? “I would like an apology from Viv. For making us write her material for her.” Sorry. Noted. Back to the drawing board.