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February 11, 2007
On The Cooler Shades Of Escape
[Enter litbrit.]
Greetings, everyone! I'd like to thank Ezra for his very kind invitation and the contributors for their support; it's truly an honor--and an honour, and a pleasure--to be here.
"Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. "The old man will get us through" they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of Hell!" . . .
"Not so fast! You're driving too fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"
"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind.
From The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty, by James Thurber.
Fiction is where I go to escape. And because this mode of mind-transport is wildly affordable, considering the distance it sometimes takes you, I'll gladly hop on board a short story or novella given the slightest excuse; when time permits, which is far less often than I'd like, I'll set our for the longer journeys offered by novels and epics and series. Long or short, though, if the story is going to succeed in transporting me from the chaos and vicissitudes of a given day to a thoroughly engrossing parallel narrative, the visuals and voiceovers of which I'll be supplying myself, it absolutely has to be more interesting and dynamic--or, at least, more elegantly scripted and suffused with enlightenment--than any real-life drama unfolding around me.
I need my Mitty moments as much as the next person, and reading fiction has provided me with the neuronal armature for many a hastily-built, sanity-preserving fantasy. I also feel for the Walters of the world, in no small part because I am one myself.
Finding such stories--ones that engage your empathy, ones that fuel your imagination--is easier said than done, however, even when you know exactly what title you're seeking. In the large chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders, literary fiction--particularly novels by authors who are new, or who, despite their magic ways with words, might be described as terminally or even marginally obscure--seems to be banished to the uppermost, furthermost shelves. While you'll see a few of the classics in prominent piles here and there, and the odd newly-published work of literary fiction will sometimes enjoy a short stay on one of the tables in the middle aisle, it's a fair bet that when the next drop-shipment of diet tomes or Chick Lit arrives, those books belonging to the more complicated and untidy (and fuchsia-free) category of Literary Fiction--or, as Oscar the Grouch would say, anything dirty or dingy or dusty; anything ragged or rotten or rusty--will invariably get whisked away to one of the wall units in the back.
As a respected literary agent recently told me, "In the past year, we've only sold one literary fiction manuscript."
This is awfully discouraging for someone who loves a good story, more so when she aspires to write and publish one herself. A work of literary fiction can sometimes take years to form in your mind and make its way onto the page, and the process of imagining, writing, and assembling a story is at once thrilling and exhausting. Always, it's a gestation, an enormous investment of mind and soul. You dream big dreams for your creation. You don't want it to stay in its incubator indefinitely; you want to see it strong and healthy, running around in the sunshine and making friends.
And if you're realistic, you know you're facing a battle steeper than any library ladder. Because, as columnist Maureen Dowd lamented this week, publishers have decided that girls just want to read fun:
Suddenly I was swimming in pink. I turned frantically from display table to display table, but I couldn’t find a novel without a pink cover. I was accosted by a sisterhood of cartoon women, sexy string beans in minis and stilettos, fashionably dashing about book covers with the requisite urban props — lattes, books, purses, shopping bags, guns and, most critically, a diamond ring.
Was it a Valentine’s Day special?
No, I realized with growing alarm, chick lit was no longer a niche. It had staged a coup of the literature shelves.
Chick Lit, it seems, is the new Beach Read. Certainly Florida's airports have been filled with such offerings for years, the idea being that you buy your beach read on the way to baggage claim and try not to read the whole thing on your way to the hotel.
Years ago, I purchased, and finished in its entirety, the novel Bridget Jones's Diary while waiting to take a flight to New York. The book was indeed funny here and there, and its heroine was perfectly agreeable, weighted down with all the expected flaws as she was. Still, I was hoping for the kind of story that takes your very awareness into custody, that obliterates superficial travel-related annoyances like claustrophobia and olfactory overload. But I wasn't transported, I wasn't engaged, and I felt little empathy for the lovelorn Bridget because the narrative followed such well-traveled paths--pink ones, if you will--and I sensed all along that my participation as image-generator and voiceover had been as carefully, tritely scripted as the narrative itself. And as most sugary things tend to do, it left me feeling sticky, self-indulgent, and oddly empty. Not empathetic, enlightened, and possessed of greater social acumen--things that, according to a recent University of Toronto, Department of Psychology study entitled Bookworms Versus Nerds, correlate positively with the reading of fiction:
Comprehending characters in a narrative fiction appears to parallel the comprehension of peers in the actual world, while the comprehension of expository non-fiction shares no such parallels. Frequent fiction readers may thus bolster or maintain their social abilities unlike frequent readers of non-fiction. Lifetime exposure to fiction and non-fiction texts was examined along with performance on empathy/social-acumen measures. In general, fiction print-exposure positively predicted measures of social ability, while non-fiction print-exposure was a negative predictor. The tendency to become absorbed in a story also predicted empathy scores.
This would appear to be a sound conclusion, though you could argue that empathetic, socially-engaged people might be more likely to prefer, and seek out, fiction in the first place.
As to the issue of Chick Lit, or Beach Reads 2: The Pinkening, I can only offer my own subjective observations. Which is to say, when I'm stuck in horrible traffic and the boys are waging internecine feuds in the back seat of the Good Ship Entropy, my escape fantasies tend to resemble a scene in a John LeCarre spy thriller. Or an ethereal dream sequence from another place and time, à la Amy Tan; a shocking moral conundrum set forth by Margaret Atwood for me to solve; a bitingly funny passage from one of Martin Amis's efforts to recite in the brain for the sheer semantic pleasure of it. Now there's the stuff of true escape: literary fiction.
To publishers everywhere, I'll say this: I'm certainly not going to fantasize about shopping or dark, handsome men, the former of which seems too much like the near-daily hunting and gathering of groceries I have to do anyway; the latter of which, having got me into this mess to begin with, will more likely than anything trigger a real-life fight-or-flight response in my brain stem.
February 11, 2007 | Permalink
Comments
This is somewhat digressive, but I loved Daniel Radosh's response to Dowd's column:
"I know! It's almost like, what if newspaper columnists who did actual reporting and analysis of consequential world affairs were crowded out by self-involved gossipy girls who only want to write about their shopping trips with their semi-famous BFFs or, if they do write about politics, reduce everything to cutesy nicknames and pop-culture analogies because it's just so much more fun than having anything thoughtful to say, and then they do it over and over again until each column is indistinguishable from the next, lulling you into a hypnotic state with their simple life lessons and dispensing nuggets of hard-won wisdom like, "her national anthem may have been off-key, but her look wasn't. It was an attractive mirror of her political message: man-tailored with a dash of pink femininity." Talk about the makeup-mirroring of America!"
Posted by: Ezra | Feb 11, 2007 1:10:06 PM
welcome litbrit...what a wonderful gift it will be to see your very talented writing here!
...the excerpt you shared from walter mitty reminded me of this wonderful passage from "the golden honeymoon", by ring lardner.
it is also delightful...a little welcome gift!
hope you enjoy it...
.....
You Cant Get Ahead of Mother
mother says that when i start talking i never know when to stop. but i tell her the only time i get a chance is when she aint around, so i have to make the most of it. i guess the fact is neither one of us would be welcome in a Quaker meeting, but as i tell mother, what did God give us tongues for if He didnt want we should use them? only she says He didnt give them to us to say the same thing over and over again, like i do, and repeat myself.but i say:
"well, mother," i say,"when people is like you and i and been married fifty years, do you expect everything i say will be something you aint heard me say before? but it may be new to others, as they aint nobody else lived with me as long as you have."
so she says:
"you cant bet they aint, as they couldnt nobody else stand you that long."
"well," i tell her, "you look pretty healthy,"
"maybe i do," she will say, "but i looked even healthier before i married you."
you cant get ahead of mother.
~~~~
ring lardner
Posted by: jacqueline | Feb 11, 2007 1:13:43 PM
Ha! He's quite right, too.
Posted by: litbrit | Feb 11, 2007 1:13:55 PM
(The above was in response to Ezra's link.)
jacqueline, thank you for the lovely welcome! As well as for the Larnder passage. Another one for my list...
Posted by: litbrit | Feb 11, 2007 1:17:06 PM
Richard Powers, _Gain_
Posted by: joel hanes | Feb 11, 2007 1:54:48 PM
Interesting piece, litbrit, about something I don't follow very well. (I'm one of those more focussed on nonfiction, which probably does relate to a kind of choice between people-type things and thing-type things.)
the latter of which, having got me into this mess to begin with, will more likely than anything trigger a real-life fight-or-flight response in my brain stem.
You didn't mention this in relation to your response to Bridget Jones's Diary, so maybe this is more of a funny afterthought than something you've actually experienced (or maybe the men in that novel aren't dark and handsome enough--I haven't read it), but if this is a real phenomenon for you, it probably deserves some more comment in connection with your response to Chick Lit and escape. Maybe your response is formed as much by your current state of mind as the more universal laws of literature.
My only experience with Wlater Mitty is via Danny Kaye. I should see if I can find that on DVD.
Posted by: Sanpete | Feb 11, 2007 2:09:09 PM
"In the large chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders, literary fiction--particularly novels by authors who are new, or who, despite their magic ways with words, might be described as terminally or even marginally obscure--seems to be banished to the uppermost, furthermost shelves."
Can you provide evidence that this problem is worse in the modern chains than in the independent stores they've supplanted?
My own experience from inside the industry is that, whatever the problems facing "literary" fiction (and we can argue all day about what that term encompasses), the chains' role in the problem is usually overstated, and that the rap on the chains often seems to hinge on comparing great independents like Tattered Cover or St. Marks' Books to dismal Waldenbooks mall outlets. But when you compare the average B&N or Borders to the average independent that isn't one of the dozen best bookstores in the US, you'll generally find that the chain superstores stock more literary fiction, more small press output, and more edgy material in just about every category.
Posted by: Patrick Nielsen Hayden | Feb 11, 2007 2:11:39 PM
"My own experience from inside the industry is that, whatever the problems facing "literary" fiction (and we can argue all day about what that term encompasses), the chains' role in the problem is usually overstated."
Whether the average indie is any better stocked that the average B & N is hardly the issue; the issue is the power of the chains. The most powerful person in fiction is the buyer for Barnes and Noble; the fate of authors and books can depend on the tastes, prejudices, and connections of one person (or two, if you coun't Sam Tannenhaus, the editor of the NYTBR.) Ideally, the Internet will diminish the power of the chains, allowing less well-funded books to flourish.
Posted by: david mizner | Feb 11, 2007 4:32:33 PM
I certainly agree that the way the chains concentrate power is cause for concern. What was being asserted, however, was that the big chains "banish" literary fiction "to the uppermost, furthermost shelves". I'm questioning whether this is in fact true -- or any more true of the chains than of other bookstores.
If we're going to deal sensibly with issues of cultural power, it helps to have an accurate picture of reality. If we're claiming that the chains do a worse job of selling edgy literary fiction than independent bookstores do, and it turns out that this isn't actually true, we're not doing ourselves any favors by insisting on the point.
Posted by: Patrick Nielsen Hayden | Feb 11, 2007 8:24:15 PM
Most every person i've met who thinks literature is great and underappreciated is or was an aspiring writer.
Posted by: yoyo | Feb 11, 2007 8:26:16 PM
maybe this is more of a funny afterthought than something you've actually experienced
Goodness, Sanpete, it was just a bit of snark about the reason I generally avoid the Chick Lit genre, which is to say, the main fantasies they fuel are shopping and dark handsome men. I find shopping to be a chore, so that's out. And the Husband is a dark, handsome guy; warring male offspring in the back seat (the mess I'm in) were caused by him so I'm hardly interested in a book fantasy.
The most powerful person in fiction is the buyer for Barnes and Noble; the fate of authors and books can depend on the tastes, prejudices, and connections of one person
David, this was certainly my experience. Where one's book gets shelved, and how it is categorized, are matters each bookstore, chain or not, decides. In the case of the vintage fashion book, Linda (my co-author) and I were dismayed to learn that BN had categorized the book as a business guide, while Borders had it listed under Health & Beauty. So of course, it got shelved that way, despite our protests. Once that ISBN number is in their systems that way, from what we were told, it's impossible to alter. It has to do with inventory coding. Unless an individual store manager took the time to say, Hey, these are fashion books and relocate them, the employees in every American branch of BN and Borders simply unpacked them directly onto shelves in the business or health/beauty sections. Needless to say, most of our sales were via the websites. There is also the matter of large chains being a publisher's biggest customer--of course they influence what manuscripts the publisher will buy, develop, and promote for the next year's offerings. The big publishers simply won't take as many risks on unknown authors these days, not unless Oprah is involved.
I certainly agree that the way the chains concentrate power is cause for concern. What was being asserted, however, was that the big chains "banish" literary fiction "to the uppermost, furthermost shelves". I'm questioning whether this is in fact true -- or any more true of the chains than of other bookstores.
If we're going to deal sensibly with issues of cultural power, it helps to have an accurate picture of reality. If we're claiming that the chains do a worse job of selling edgy literary fiction than independent bookstores do, and it turns out that this isn't actually true, we're not doing ourselves any favors by insisting on the point.
What was being asserted? Lighten up, Patrick! I was describing, not asserting. I said whisked away, not banished. And that is exactly what happens to literary fiction when the store (any store) needs to make room for a shipment of Chick Lit or diet books or calendars.
The reason I used BN and Borders as examples had to do with being able to give everyone a visual--had I written about Haslams or Inkwood (two Tampa-area independents I frequent), only local readers would have been able to picture what I was talking about. I like to have a visual in my head when I'm reading--don't you? What I wrote is a picture of reality insofar as I have experienced it, both as a customer and as a writer. This was a little story, an observation, that's all, not an anti-chain polemic. So no hard statistics, sorry. But I will say that Haslams and Inkwood devote significantly more of their prominent display real estate to literary fiction than do the Tampa area BN and Borders branches I've visited. Don't get me started on Target.
Most every person i've met who thinks literature is great and underappreciated is or was an aspiring writer.
And most every person I've met who thinks literature isn't great and underappreciated doesn't read it.
Posted by: litbrit | Feb 11, 2007 9:32:46 PM
Litbrit, I understood the basic outline of what you explain, but am still left wondering how much your personal lack of interest (as you now put it) in the subject matter is responsible for your not being drawn in by Chick Lit, rather than the more objectively described deficiencies (explained in your critique of Bridget Jones's Diary) that you find in its manner of exploring its subject matter. It seems you develop one explanation of your disappointment with Chick Lit and then toss in a different one at the end. Not a big deal, just a curiosity.
Posted by: Sanpete | Feb 11, 2007 10:18:05 PM
At the beginning, I gave this reason for not enjoying the Bridget book: "I wasn't transported, I wasn't engaged, and I felt little empathy". Then I discuss the role of empathy gained via reading fiction--the empathy having set up my brain for fantasy, which in turn I like to engage in for purposes of escape during stressful situations. Finally, I submit my complaint to publishers that Chick Lit doesn't inspire empathy and therefore doesn't fuel fantasy, at least not my brand of fantasy.
I don't see these as being inconsistent.
Posted by: litbrit | Feb 11, 2007 10:56:10 PM
There's no inconsistency, litbrit. You explained why what I take to be a representative case of Chick Lit doesn't work for you in objective terms, "because the narrative followed such well-traveled paths--pink ones, if you will--and I sensed all along that my participation as image-generator and voiceover had been as carefully, tritely scripted as the narrative itself." OK, that explains it. Then at the end you offer a different point that would explain equally well why Chick Lit doesn't work for you: you just aren't interested in its subject matter. They aren't inconsistent explanations, but they are two different explanations. One could be more important than the other, or affect the significance you attach to the other. I was wondering about how you think the two interact in your case, whether one affects the other, whether the latter point might influence your taking the "well-traveled paths" as a deficiency rather than a virtue, for example; stuff like that. Maybe my question is just too obscure to follow. Or I've made it so ....
I could just say this: what's your real beef with Chick Lit, it's objective deficiencies as literature or your subjective lack of interest in its subject? And might one affect the way you see the other?
Posted by: Sanpete | Feb 11, 2007 11:23:30 PM
what's your real beef with Chick Lit, it's objective deficiencies as literature or your subjective lack of interest in its subject?
Sanpete, I'd say both are good reasons for not especially liking it, and if I'm honest, I'd add yet another: I resent that a (generally) dreadful mangling of the English language coupled with an equally dreadful, cliche-choked plot can net a "writer" millions while thoughtful, intelligent, unique works of fiction that often take years to write bring precious little to their authors. I know it's all about the marketplace, blah, blah, but I still resent it, which I think I'm allowed to do.
Posted by: litbrit | Feb 11, 2007 11:33:44 PM
And most every person I've met who thinks literature isn't great and underappreciated doesn't read it.
That was delicious.
Posted by: Stephen | Feb 12, 2007 12:34:47 AM
I'm too busy burning it.
Posted by: yoyo | Feb 12, 2007 1:26:43 AM
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Posted by: judy | Sep 26, 2007 10:44:00 PM
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