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Nov. 16, 2000 'Smatter of Fact Times change, and so too, do tastes. We do not dress like we did 100 years ago; we fix our hair differently, and the Ford I presently drive is different from the one driven by my grandfather. Changing tastes have also affected what we read, and given what gets into print these days, that is truly unfortunate. I refer, not to an increase in sex, violence and blue language, but to decreasing literary merit. I once read a little gem of a book called How to Fail as A Novelist. It gave wonderful tips on points of view, grammar, punctuation, showing the plot rather than simply telling it, believable characters, avoiding clichés, and the like. I made a few key discoveries from it — namely that many popular authors haven’t read it, and, since it was independently produced, apparently no publisher would touch it. (Probably, it hits too close to home for some of these purveyors of printed schlock). The very next day, I began reading a book — a bestseller by John Saul — that broke nearly all of the rules, and a light bulb popped on. The publishing game is no longer about talent. It is about what the publisher feels will sell the most, and such a poor effort as the aforementioned book would not have gotten into print if the demand for dumbed-down intellectual swill wasn’t high. I don’t feel anything else explains the sudden preponderance of celebrities on the bestseller lists. Some of them can actually write, and certainly, all have the right to try it. But on the whole, it sends the message that names are more important than talent, and worse, that a good actor/singer/dancer, etc. is naturally going to be a great novelist. Britney Spears, for instance, is set to debut a novel co-written with her mother. Far be it for me to cast unfair aspersions about, but how many other 19-year-olds do you know with a publishing contract? Permit me to risk the wrath of teenage girls everywhere and say that Britney is probably no more qualified to write a novel than Stephen King is to strut about half naked, singing corny love songs to an international audience. I’ll also hazard a guess that any success Britney sees will come from name recognition, rather than some nascent prowess with words, but if she turns out to be a budding literary talent, more power to her. Name recognition, of course, explains how so many best-selling novelists continue to get books published well after they’ve slipped off the literary wagon. An author I once enjoyed, Dean Koontz, now churns out penny dreadfuls, published to great acclaim irrespective of the fact that he repeats plots, character motivation, and sometimes, names. As long as we’re buying, though, he won’t care. King, who will probably go down as one of the most popular authors of the 20th century, has produced yet one more book the size of a telephone directory. It’s well written — but it takes better than 100 pages before the story actually starts. Character development and description are important, but tedium of this sort is inexcusable when poetic genius does not further the plot. There used to be an aura of glamour and quasi-respect around writing. This was back when readers understood that creating novels was actually hard work. They understood this, of course, because they expected the fiction they bought to be good. These days, we have convinced ourselves that anyone can do it, and we’ve put our money where our mouths are. Please, oh please! Let the revolution begin. |
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