Dawn Raffel's editor's letter from the latest issue of The Literarian, the lit mag produced by one of my favorite New York literary institutions, the Center for Fiction, included this tongue-in-cheek commentary about the phenomenon of "beach reads" in attempting to endorse its lineup of literary authors:
And damn... though I appreciate the sentiment that we don't have to get all Brown-y just because we're trying to relax, the tone of this made me want to faceplant on my AC-refrigerated cubicle desk.* Worthwhile? Is she telling me that what I thought was going to be a magazine full of cool, entertaining lit stories is actually going to be an educational experience? But, but... I'm on vacation....**
Two things this brings to mind.
First, Lev Grossman's WSJ essay about critical aversion to plot and how "genre" is becoming more "literary" these days, and vice versa. Grossman blames the Modernists for instilling in us the idea that for something to be good, it has to be hard. These attitudes are changing, says he. We can have fun, plot, adventure and gob-smacking good writing all in the same volume.
Secondly, D.R. Haney's gloriously depressing humor piece Failed Artist (tm) line of children's books. The third in the series is a cautionary tale, I Am A Book, wherein a boy sells his soul to the devil to be an author, only to find out:
"Then the book was published, and no one bought it, except for a few writers in Brooklyn. “I’ll read your book if you read mine,” they told the boy. The boy agreed, and he read one book after another about professors getting divorced."
Now, on one hand, if one more person hands me an Anne Rice-phoned-in-umpteenth-in-the-series-fang-banger novels telling me it's sooo good, I might tear my face off. On the other hand, I will probably have the same reaction to some Franzenmulator writing about the intricacies of family dramas in suburban Iowa. Add to that books that are assumed indelible because they are so em-effing difficult to get through without re- and re-reading on the syntactical level.
I like pulp sometimes, I like quiet, contemplative lit sometimes. It's just a matter of taste. Persisting in the idea that a "fun," "quick-reading" book is inherently less "worthwhile" is incredibly self-defeating for a writer.
Now, on one hand, if one more person hands me an Anne Rice-phoned-in-umpteenth-in-the-series-fang-banger novels telling me it's sooo good, I might tear my face off. On the other hand, I will probably have the same reaction to some Franzenmulator writing about the intricacies of family dramas in suburban Iowa. Add to that books that are assumed indelible because they are so em-effing difficult to get through without re- and re-reading on the syntactical level.
I like pulp sometimes, I like quiet, contemplative lit sometimes. It's just a matter of taste. Persisting in the idea that a "fun," "quick-reading" book is inherently less "worthwhile" is incredibly self-defeating for a writer.
Bringing this back to Ms. Raffel's mostly-lovely letter in The Literarian, the most annoying thing about bringing Dante into the equation when talking about beach reads is that most of the stories the magazine features in this issue are from authors who can be incredibly engaging, even (gasp) plotty sometimes. Downplaying their popular appeal is unfair to them. Or, do we agree with Mr. Haney's fake kids' book's assessment that only "unusual" people read?
*I'm office temping again. Partly for the money, and partly because my apartment has no windows.
**Obviously not really.
2 comments:
I err on the side of a book having to have a bit of substance - my brain does revolt if it's pure mind candy. But then, about six weeks ago I toasted myself to a crisp, as I was sat on the beach engrossed in a *really good* book about quantum physics, which is too far the other way.
I think the problem is folk defining a category known as "beach reads" in the first place - kinda suggests it all has to be one style/level of difficulty/whatever. And that's stoopid.
Agreed. It's just the idea of a narrowly-defined literary canon that annoys me. The most irksome thing about this was the pulp-shaming, as if a little candy now and then was a bad thing. Casting "fun" books in a different category as "worthwhile" ones is a disservice to great authors who like a bit of fun.
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