bloodyrosemccoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bloodyrosemccoy) wrote2009-11-13 06:33 pm
bloodyrosemccoy) wrote2009-11-13 06:33 pm
Entry tags:
True Literature
For some reason this week’s Discussion Topic seems to be the nature of Literature. From one of my friends’ frustration with someone trying to write a Great Book where nothing happens to the world’s most boring character* to the Publisher’s Weekly decision to make their “10 most important books of 2009” be a bunch of navelgazer books By Middle-Aged White Guys, For Middle-Aged White Guys, And Frequently Starring Middle-Aged White Guys, with stops in between for stories on creative writing classes that do not feel genre fiction “counts.”
I’m not sure why it’s all coming at me at once, but believe me, I get that frustration. I’ve been frustrated with Great Literature since high school, when pointing out that it was actually quite stupid was not met with the same revelation the citizens had when the small child pointed out the emperor was naked.** I simply got told I wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
The whole picture was a parade of books by what appeared to be some extremely self-important people. And this week it hit me—that’s the trouble with so much Great Literature. It was written to be that way, by people who thought they were the deepest fucking bastards ever to pick up a pen.
I hate books like that, books whose primary motive is to blow your mind with how amazingly brilliant the author is. The books I like, which I have been known to describe as “good despite being Great Literature,” are the ones that got there themselves, without the author pushing it along as a testament to their own genius. They’re the books where the author seems to be really having fun, to be telling the story because it’s a story and not because it’s got some deep meaningful meaning. It’s why I like Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend but not Great Expectations. It’s why I think Faulkner, Hemingway, Arthur Miller, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and especially Thoreau were such pompous blowhards. It’s why I love me some genre fiction, fiction where even self-important authors like Ursula K. LeGuin*** don’t forget that they’re writing a story and not just some extended metaphor.
It’s why I want to be an intelligent hack. I’ve worked hard to learn how to write a real story, not just a monument to myself. That seems to be the way to enjoy life, and to have your characters do the same—something that seems lacking in the drabness of self-important writing. And hell, I’d be more willing to read it—and despite the perpetuation of snobbery, I’m betting I’m not the only one.
*Okay, let me just say it: there is no such thing as an Everyman. It’s impossible. Quit trying, because your attempts just lead to a completely uninteresting person.
**There was a terrific version of the story where at the end, instead of everyone having a good laugh at themselves, the mother quickly shushes the boy and apologizes to the emperor, and the kid goes through life believing that he really was some moron who just couldn’t see the clothes. I can’t remember who wrote it, but I found it hilarious.
***She can wax pompous, but she also does much less navel-gazing than your average non-genre writer.
I’m not sure why it’s all coming at me at once, but believe me, I get that frustration. I’ve been frustrated with Great Literature since high school, when pointing out that it was actually quite stupid was not met with the same revelation the citizens had when the small child pointed out the emperor was naked.** I simply got told I wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
The whole picture was a parade of books by what appeared to be some extremely self-important people. And this week it hit me—that’s the trouble with so much Great Literature. It was written to be that way, by people who thought they were the deepest fucking bastards ever to pick up a pen.
I hate books like that, books whose primary motive is to blow your mind with how amazingly brilliant the author is. The books I like, which I have been known to describe as “good despite being Great Literature,” are the ones that got there themselves, without the author pushing it along as a testament to their own genius. They’re the books where the author seems to be really having fun, to be telling the story because it’s a story and not because it’s got some deep meaningful meaning. It’s why I like Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend but not Great Expectations. It’s why I think Faulkner, Hemingway, Arthur Miller, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and especially Thoreau were such pompous blowhards. It’s why I love me some genre fiction, fiction where even self-important authors like Ursula K. LeGuin*** don’t forget that they’re writing a story and not just some extended metaphor.
It’s why I want to be an intelligent hack. I’ve worked hard to learn how to write a real story, not just a monument to myself. That seems to be the way to enjoy life, and to have your characters do the same—something that seems lacking in the drabness of self-important writing. And hell, I’d be more willing to read it—and despite the perpetuation of snobbery, I’m betting I’m not the only one.
*Okay, let me just say it: there is no such thing as an Everyman. It’s impossible. Quit trying, because your attempts just lead to a completely uninteresting person.
**There was a terrific version of the story where at the end, instead of everyone having a good laugh at themselves, the mother quickly shushes the boy and apologizes to the emperor, and the kid goes through life believing that he really was some moron who just couldn’t see the clothes. I can’t remember who wrote it, but I found it hilarious.
***She can wax pompous, but she also does much less navel-gazing than your average non-genre writer.