Laura Kinsale emailed us her comment regarding our discussion on “author as novel” and the encouraged symbiosis between the two, and said that it might make for a good blog post to provide another point of view on our debate about accountability, author-as-novel, and close connections between author, book, self, and readership.
Well, here’s my take on it.
Writing is not a service industry, because writing is an art. When I sit down to write, I am not thinking of my readers. I am thinking of the words, the story, the characters, the way it all goes together, the why and where it goes, this golden ball with the golden string unraveling and tangling and confusing me and frustrating me and delighting me.
Guess what readers. It’s not about you at all. It’s not about me either, except that in some unknown way it’s born of me and nurtured and driven by me. The old cliché about books being your children is true. They are -of- you, but you do not control them.
It’s about the writing. It’s about the world and story there, and sometimes you want it so badly to be something else and you try and you try and you cannot make it go that way. And you want to beat your head against the wall and scream. And nothing you do will make it what you dream that it can be. As good as you wanted it to be.
Like children, books.
So then it goes out there, whatever you made of it, and it’s a commodity. People say what they want to say, in whatever way they want to say it, because it’s no skin off their back. And they get really really pissed off if they spent their money and they didn’t like what they got. So now it’s corporate America and readers “voting with their wallets” and shut up if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, be a professional, suck-up to readers, always be polite, who-do-you-think-you-are, some kind of diva? Some kind of artiste? Be truthful to the depth of your heart in your work, but in your public persona, lie lie lie because otherwise you’re just another wuss who can’t take it. Learn to sell yourself, get a blog, get a website, that’s the future, son, it’s all out there, Wall Street, big money…hey it’s just a buncha damn words, what’s your problem? We can always find another writer, they’re a dime a dozen.
A book is a magic thing. It has a life of its own. Do you doubt it, in the small hours of the night when you sit up in bed reading and reading, living in a world you never made, unable to bear to leave it until the last page closes and it vanishes into thin air?
Do you think it is any different for me when I write it? It is magic, but so fragile. So hard to find and easy to lose.
Now there’s this internet, another magic thing with a life of its own, a million voices roaring whispering screaming over your shoulder into the quiet place where the stories come from. You can either shut it out entirely or try to open one tiny window and hope you aren’t washed away in the flood. It’s foolish to open the window, frankly. You do that when you’re stuck with no magic at hand, and you’re bored and discouraged and fretful but you have to stay at the computer just-in-case. It’s like having a bottle of liquor in the drawer.
I always loved books by certain authors. I loved the words, the way they were put together…“Language is like shot silk; so much depends on the angle at which it is held.” John Fowles wrote that in The French Lieutenant’s Woman, and it awed me when I read it, the simple perfection of that image, the sound of it, and the way it fit into the story that he told. I used to love his books so much that I longed to write to him, like you’d write to a lover, as if I knew him and he must know me, and we could have long conversations and understand one another.
Lately I read a biography of him, and he was a silly mess. He was just a man, and did some things I couldn’t respect, but as an author myself I understand much better now that his books were not him. He lived in two lives, his real one, common and a little shoddy and full of all the
aches and missteps and selfishness and worries that we all bear, and in another one, a world that he created with words. They intersected but they are not the same.One is living, one is like a living dream, both created piece by piece, moment by moment, step by step and keystroke by keystroke, blood sweat and tears and run to the grocery store and by the bank before you walk the dog.
All the storm and fury of the internet and readers and critics and sales figures is nothing. It’s not out there. It’s in here. If I have to protect it from readers, I will protect it, viciously. That may be by thinking you are all a bunch of clueless babbling idiots, no personal offense. No more than you want to hear my personal woes do I want to know what your ten million conflicting opinions are.
I serve a different master. I serve this art, whether you buy it or not. I began to write because I loved to write. That is still the only way.
I as a person deserve no particular respect above the average. But the work that I do, the art itself which has been with us and served us and consoled us and given us wonder and joy and some little modicum of understanding here and there—that art deserves respect. From me, from
readers, from publishers. We should all give it the best that we have.That’s my take. Your mileage may vary.
Quote of the year—of the freakin’ century, in fact, uttererd by Tracy MacNish over the AAR ATBF board: http://www.hwforums.com/2005/messages/14303.html
Criticism is not that different than praise, really, but is just a matter of whether or not one agrees with what’s being said.
I’ve never read her books and I don’t agree with all of her points, necessarily, but that quote—it ROCKS!
Something else by Tisty (sorry, I’m really not trying to pick on you, it’s just that some things you’re saying are jumping out at me for the moment):
Again, that’s comparing apples to oranges. If I called, say, Laura Kinsale “A smelly pillow-biting freak,” she’s perfectly welcome to call me bad names back, though one could argue about the effectiveness and quality of the discourse. On the other hand, if I said “Jervaulx, the hero of Flowers From the Storm, is a smelly pillow-biting freak,” Laura is free to criticize my criticism, perhaps by offering alternative interpretations of what I’ve construed as smelly, freakish pillow-biting behavior—but leaping from disagreeing with my criticism to criticizing ME is escalation. She’s certainly free to think “What a troglodyte, she didn’t get my hero’s struggles AT ALL,” and I’m certainly free to think “What the hell kind of person writes about a smelly pillow-biting freak and makes him a hero?” but bringing up those sorts of points in a serious discussion (and I think SBTB often hosts fairly serious discussions, even with my propensity to cuss and make terrible analogies) doesn’t serve any purpose at all except petty retribution. And we’re all smarter and better than that, right?
(By the way, y’all know I dig FFTS and that I used Laura as an example only because I’m such a shameless squeeing fangirl of her work, right?)
Well a good and wise friend of mine has sworn me to silence regarding my blog entry, but someone asked me a direct question so hey, I can answer that, right? 😉
Melanie asked:
“So, being able to publish your work, receive good reviews, and reach an audience count for nothing in your decision to write? Or is it all just gravy? I’m deliberately being a little dense here, ‘cause I can’t imagine it would be as satisfying for a successful author to just scribble away in a notebook…”
This is an excellent and insightful question. They count, somewhat, but let me tell you a little story. When I began to write, I did it on yellow pads of paper while I was at work. I wrote in the wee hours of the night under the blue-white lights of a drilling rig, scribbling away among the towering stacks of Playboy and Penthouse in the tool pusher’s trailer (now there’s inspiration for you). Eventually I quit that job and kept writing. At that point my only reader was my husband, who was and always has been supportive and encouraging. He helped me think of plots, and I’m sure his participation and enjoyment of what I was doing was a critical factor that kept me going when I would have fizzled out for lack of a clue how to plot. I loved what I was doing but I had no idea what to do with it until I read some articles about publishing. So I started sending my stuff in. And it all got rejected.
It is possible again at that point that the whole thing would have eventually fizzled out, but I was just doing it because I enjoyed it and had some vague idea that in the future I might get published. Who was I writing for? Myself. My husband, secondarily, but mostly for myself. I was writing the books I wanted to read and couldn’t find on the shelves, but I was also learning what it was like to have a character come alive and start to move with their own will, to tell ME what and who they were. This in itself is a vivid joy, and it is still my primary joy in the process, followed closely by how the words work to create this character and story.
I got lucky and got a contract. And my whole life became writing. The characters became very very real to me, like real people. When I was done with that book, after a year, and realized that those characters weren’t actually people in my life, but just fantasies in my head, it was a true shock. It was like that old boyfriend you idealized for years after you broke up, and then when you met him again he was just a kinda chubby average dull guy with a receding hairline, not the witty handsome person you’d been dreaming about all these years, and suddenly you understood that person you thought you were in love with wasn’t him and in fact never existed at all. It’s a shock.
So I grieved and started on an another book. This time it was on a contract from the beginning, so I had a deadline. But I still loved it and the characters became real to me again, and it was what I wanted to do. Somewhere in the middle of writing that, I got some good feedback on the first book, which was published, so that was encouraging too. But it was still all for me, it was the process that I loved.
I got a contract for the third book, and by that time, it began to dawn on me that four thousand dollars for a year’s full-time work was perhaps not going to amount to a lucrative career. And I thought—I so clearly remember thinking this—“Well, I don’t care if I had to pay them to write, I love it so much I’d do it anyway.”
Yeah. Continued in next comment….
Fast forward a few years. Reviews, good and bad, awards, won or not, deadlines met, books written, I still loved it but it was getting harder sometimes to go in there and sit down at the computer. Particularly the deadlines got difficult, because I took great pride in meeting them, but I also took great pride in producing my best and most original work, two things which don’t necessarily compliment one another. So I was allowing longer and longer to go by between finishing a book and starting one, and it was getting more and more physically and mentally exhausting to squeeze the work into the time left. But I was a pro, see? I could do it. And people out there were loving my books, as far as I could tell, and that is certainly a high, so I pushed ahead. I won an award or two. Real money was involved now. Real good money. Like anyone else would, I think, at that time I just envisioned an ever-rising arc of success on top of success.
Silly me! There is a golden goose, you know. And you can kill it. And I did.
I won’t go into that, I wrote a bit about it on my website; suffice to say I ended up with years of writers block. The block, I know now, came from confusing the external motivations from the internal motivations. Slowly, without me even realizing it, writing ceased to be a labor of love and became merely a labor. I had publishers chasing me, but I could not write.
Kind of a change from, I’d do this if I had to pay -them-, huh? We can argue about what’s art and what’s owed to readers and all that, but whatever was inside me that had loved doing this and produced work that readers loved too was gone. I didn’t know if it was hiding or destroyed, and I spent a long time figuring that out. At first I called it burn-out, and certainly it was some of that, but eventually, when I did begin to write again, I learned the real truth.
No, I don’t write for readers. I don’t even write for myself, really. I write to release these people and these stories from wherever they are hidden, and no, I don’t know where the come from or why. I write for the joy of typing a sequence of words that tells me this man, this assassin, is terrified of going to Hell, and that drives him to many things. That particular joy is mine. If a reader feels it too, which I certainly hope they would, that’s cool and I’m glad for them. But I can’t create it just for the reader. I can only create it for me.
Perhaps this isn’t art, I don’t know. Perhaps there’s no such thing as a muse, or menstrual cramps, or headaches, because we can’t see them or touch them or haven’t experienced them ourselves. I define art as Passion + Craft. The craft must be there, oh yes, but the reason the craft is there is to draw out and define the passion. The craft alone is not enough, and the passion alone is just an undefined impetus to somewhere. Both together create a magic reality. That’s why I write. If people want to pay me for it, I’ll sure take the check, but if I write -for- the check, only the check, well…bye-bye golden goose.
Of course I’m only describing my own experience here. Writers can be quite different, and for many the production of large amounts of work on demand is not a problem at all. I would never ever in a million years say that work isn’t just as valuable or just as much fun for them and readers too. And publishers sure like them better. 😉
I have wanted to present my perspective here, not to claim that it’s a universal truth, but to point out that it is a real one. There is a lot of talk about “authors should be this” and “authors should be that,” But the rabbits don’t always line up in a row, and the market is not always perfectly efficient. I’m not selling insurance. I can’t just push for greater success by working longer hours and cutting back on costs and providing better quality for a lower price. I’m not a service industry. I tried, and I found out I couldn’t be.
Entertainment, on the other hand, is nothing without an audience. As someone said earlier, a “storytelling†assumes a listener.
But are the lines between art and entertainment always clear? I think, for example, that The Sopranos or Deadwood is art, even though it’s also entertainment. And I’ve read some books that are considered “high art” that were also extremely entertaining to me.
I agree that sometimes we’re lumping together art and artifice, but at some level, I think the high brow – low brow divide has more to do with individual perception of a particular book, film, painting, etc. than easily identifiable differences. We could probably come up with lots and lots of examples on which we agree that such and such is or isn’t “art,” but there are probably lots of places where we couldn’t agree, as well.
I am also in sympathy with Jane’s point that just because a book is published souldn’t automatically afford it respect as “art,” if only because that seems, again, to draw this big ‘special’ demarcation around fiction writing as an intrinsically more valuable activity than, say, kick-ass cheffing (America’s Top Chef, anyone?).
Ah, see, you should have a blog. You more clearly articulated what I was thinking. I don’t so much have a problem with labeling books/fiction as art as I do the idea that “art” deserves special treatment.
And I love Top Chef, Iron Chef, and Project Runway. Yeah for cable.
Jeri said, “I write to entertain. I blog to entertain. I embarrass myself in front of family and friends to entertain. If they passed a law saying no one but me could ever read my books again, I’d quit writing and join the karaoke circuit. At least then I’d still be making people laugh.”
Jeri,
You, my friend, are a liar and a fraud.
You may think you write to entertain, but the effort and care you put into your shit is the magic that Kinsale speaks of in her essay.
What you do is not so much a soft-shoe in a silly hat, but more a production of (insert fabulous ballet here).
Your characters respond logically to the stimulus of the worlds you’ve created. Your approach to mundane, overcooked topics/premises is innovative and your writing is damn near seamless.
So just shut the fuck up with the bullshit.
Shaunee
But are the lines between art and entertainment always clear?
Not at all. Often the best entertainment has high artistic values, and in most cases art and entertainment overlap (which is why the A&E Channel exists, I guess). My point was that they have different justifications for existing.
And after thinking further about it and reading Laura Kinsale’s comments (which were even more eloquent than the original letter, IMO), I’d like to backpedal a bit about what I said about becoming a karaoke queen. If the novel I just finished, totally on spec with no publisher waiting for it, never got published, I’d still be glad I wrote it. Those characters needed to live. I hope that doesn’t sound pretentious.
And I didn’t say writing deserves “special treatment,” I said it deserves respect in and of itself as form of an endeavor that has deep implications for our humanity, whether or not those implications are realized in any given work. Not only from the “consumers” but from the “producers” of it.
I mean by that, it is more than just a hamburger with onions. 🙂
You, my friend, are a liar and a fraud.
Sorry, Shaunee, our comments passed like two drunken sailors in the night.
Time to go all Joe Pesci on your ass:
Don’t I amuse you? Huh? Aren’t I your clown? Aren’t I here to fuckin’ amuse you?
And time for Candy to go all LLB on our asses and cut this thread before we starts us a fistfight!
Laura, your comments bring to mind a lot of what many (painting) artists go through. The ultimate dream of many artists is not to have to do the commercial art ever again but to paint to their heart’s content and hope someone buys it. One of my favorite artists, Michael Whelan, started out doing book covers and now does “fine art” which sells online and in galleries. He now paints the visions in his head and not in some art director’s description, and he makes a lot of money now because he has already built up a reputation and a huge fan base through his commercial art.
He was good with the commercial art, but I’ll bet that like you, it just didn’t move him as much as his other work and he was looking very much forward to retiring by doing what I like to call fine art.
I know a great writer who, after writing and directing radio and tv commercials got burned out doing them and went on to writing movie and tv scripts. Then, he got burned out doing THAT because of all the kow-towing to producers and studio executives that now he’s working on a novel or two. He likes it better because he writes for him, and when he describes a scene, he’s not worried about how much it would cost a studio to have 15 helicopters flying around. It’s what his heart and mind dictates. Screw everyone else.
He is still writing for someone, though, so he pays attention to his craft, how the words flow together, how the images unfold.
It takes a lot to craft something people will like, true. But if the thought of what people will think will hinder the process, it’s best to remove that thought and see how it goes from there. There are a lot of fine artists who do well commercially because they are just that good and that appealing to their audience. And then there are those who don’t sell much, but their art gives them relief so they keep doing it.
Laura, I haven’t read any of your books (yet), but from what you’ve written, I’m betting that whether you write for yourself or for others, you do it well enough that you’ll ALWAYS have an audience and do well commercially. So, in your case, you probably won’t need to worry so much about the reader as you write. If thinking about the publishers, editors, reviewers, and readers hinders you in your writing, then don’t think about them.
You’re not a commercial artist; you’re a fine artist who does well commercially.
That’s all there is to it. So write on! 🙂
I mean by that, it is more than just a hamburger with onions. smile
And yet, I think I’m moved more profoundly when someone makes me a truly great, truly rare but not raw, truly juicy and just salted enough to be savory, perfectly trimmed and dressed hamburger than I am by a great filet or prime rib. Maybe it’s the ordinariness of the hamburger, or its ubiquitous association with the words “drive-thru,” but I can go into raptures over a truly great burger.
Anyone seen “Babette’s Feast,” by the way? An articulate case for the powerful connections between food, culture, love, beauty, sensuousness and sensuality, and, of course, art.
As for your point about respecting literature—in the broad sense of the word—yes, absolutely I agree. I was recently lamenting the fact that there seem to be no more public intellectuals (insert comment here about the rise of American anti-intellectualism over the past 6 years), especially those who could get out big ideas in a way that didn’t seem snooty or intimidating. I think it’s all of a piece, actually.
Jeri,
Wait until I see you at RWA! I’ve been doing those stupid Tae Bo tapes and could probably kick your ass!
Okay you do amuse, but I can’t help but admire the way you do it. You want us to think you’re pie-in-the-face girl when the truth is you’re much more layered and finely wrought. Sure I love a good pie in the face (who doesn’t?), but I also really love the challenge that I’ve come to expect from most art. Including yours.
LOL Robin. Perhaps I should have said, it’s more than just a Big Mac. (Then again, I can get pretty misty over Big Macs myself, particularly when I’m on a diet. ;))
Who was I writing for? Myself. My husband, secondarily, but mostly for myself. I was writing the books I wanted to read and couldn’t find on the shelves
This is almost reassuring to me becuase, while it doesn’t contradict anything you said before or after, Ms. Kinsale, it still confirms that “a” reader was part of the process – yourself. That I can accept and appreciate on all levels. Partly because I’ve felt the same way at times when I looked for something I wanted to read but mostly because it simply makes sense, even to this reader only.
The original essay was beautiful but I have to admit that your additional comments touched my heart. Thank you.
I lurk more than I post, but I’m compelled to toss my 2 cents into the wishing well today. Writing & Life both have communities, and we either choose to live in them…or not. Where we as readers OR writers choose to live depends upon the scope of our personal desires and needs. Sometimes I need that feeling of being incognito, the one that begs just let me write and leave me alone status—therefore a pseudonym. Other times I’m out of the closet and saying go for it – take your best shot.
Jeri’s words hit home – her comment about the external validation that some authors need…and some don’t. If I choose not to care what someone says about my writing, it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about THEM per se. Just means their opinions won’t affect how I feel about myself and my craft.
LOL – the one thing I do disagree with – and I’m not even sure who said it – is that the artistic part belongs to the authors and the business to the publishers. I just handed in final edits on a book to my publisher, and trust me…what she can do with what I hand her IS art. *grin*
…have a good day, everyone…
Great comments.
Oh, I’m many, many years out of college now but I still drool over the thought of a Murph’s burger. But you know, if I went back to Champaign and had one I’m fairly sure it would disappoint. The real thing cannot possibly measure up to what I’ve made it in my memory.
Books can be the same way. I read something that rocks. I then go for the backlist or wait anxiously for the new release and the next read often will just not measure up…possibly because of my now overinflated expectations.
As for authors and reviews and such. Meg Cabot attributes one of her relatives with this quote, “You’re not a $50 bill. Not everyone is going to like you.” (Or your books)
LOL Robin. Perhaps I should have said, it’s more than just a Big Mac. (Then again, I can get pretty misty over Big Macs myself, particularly when I’m on a diet. ;))
It’s the French paradox.
Apparently the French don’t even have a word for “guilt”. So the lesson is that it’s the guilt that kills us, not the Big Macs. How insane it is that we’ve created all this wonderful food only to tell ourselves it’s basically poison. Forget the 20 Snack Wells and go for the small portion of creme brulee.
I’ve always said that I have to keep writing whether I get published or not. Otherwise it’s just me, sitting around, thinking about imaginary people gettin’ it on. Writing it down makes it a slightly more valid endeavor. Art even. You can’t beat that with a stick.
The frustrating thing for me as a reader and message board participant is that (as has been pointed by other readers) it sometimes seems like some of the same people who view their work as art and want us to do so as well, are quick to tell us that it’s “just” romance.
I’m not speaking of Ms. Kinsale here, of whose work I’m just as much of a squeeing fangirl as Candy. I’ve never seen her hold that view.
But it’s not as uncommon as I wish it were, in discussions at AAR, to hear an author or even their fan step forward and say these words: It’s just romance.
And even when it’s not spoken, it’s often the subtext of many an argument.
Want to examine the prevalence of forced seductions and rapes in the genre? I don’t understand why, it is just romance.
Think a particular sentence is cliched, or the prose purple? Why are you complaining, it is only the romance genre after all.
Finding typos, grammatical errors or malapropisms in a book you want to like? We’re talking about genre fiction here. What do you expect? It’s just romance.
This is the subtext: What right do you have to expect artistry? You’re so mean. Don’t you know it’s unfair to the author and offensive to us fans? Look, now you’ve gone and hurt the author’s feelings! And who do you think you are, with your college professor airs? Who asked you to bring symbolism, foreshadowing, or quotation marks into this? Where do you get off holding this book to the standards of art?
On the flip side, LFL, here’s the other argument: “How dare you point out my misspellings and comma splices? They’re part of my art, and therefore sacrosanct. Why can’t you understand my art?”
To which I’m tempted to reply: “Because I can’t understand your sentences.”
The frustrating thing for me as a reader and message board participant is that (as has been pointed by other readers) it sometimes seems like some of the same people who view their work as art and want us to do so as well, are quick to tell us that it’s “just†romance.
Sure, because in both cases, the author is measuring the worth of her work through the lens of the reader, and that’s like trying to read through kaleidoscope. That’s why I like the idea of the author writing simply for herself, because it relieves me of the burden of feeling like I’m responsible for the author’s feelings no matter what I think of a book.
As for inter-poster dynamics, IMO it’s often less about disagreement over the book (or even outrage that a favorite author is being criticized), and more about personality clashes and opportunities for these little grudges to come out in what some posters see as a legitimate way. I understand about getting annoyed with other posters, but at least keep it tightly reined enough to express it through an actual rebuttal of their position, not an attack on their person.
On the flip side, LFL, here’s the other argument: “How dare you point out my misspellings and comma splices? They’re part of my art, and therefore sacrosanct. Why can’t you understand my art?â€
To which I’m tempted to reply: “Because I can’t understand your sentences.â€
That was so beautiful, Candy, it makes me want to cry. I think I’ll have a hamburger for lunch and revel in all the artistic beauty of this morning’s dose or SBTB.
LOL ok I can’t stand it. My friend will kill me. But anyway…
Candy and others, a serious and significant part of what I meant by “respect” in my original post, and maybe this didn’t come across fully, was that the author also has (probably the most) responsibility to respect the art of writing. That means spell things right and use correct grammar (well maybe—there’s James Joyce too and some of his stuff is incomprehensible and some of it is simply beautiful, but it’s a part of this art too).
Carelessness is a lack of respect. There’s no excuse for it beyond just being a human screw-up and you fight that tooth and nail BECAUSE of respect. No one should excuse carelessness as respect for art because it is in fact the opposite of respect.
Sometimes a sentence may not be grammatically correct for a reason, by choice, not out of carelessness. In that case, it’s open to critique by all and sundry. But I would ask that the critique also maintain the same respect for the ultimate goal of creating this magical living breathing vision, and not be just self-interested carping or showing off. Because in the same way that authors can be defensive about their work, reviewers and readers and commenters too are subject to enjoying the sound of their own opinions. We all have to fight that, our common human foibles, and to me the reason we fight it is out of respect for the art itself.
Because in the same way that authors can be defensive about their work, reviewers and readers and commenters too are subject to enjoying the sound of their own opinions.
HAHAHA It’s funny because it’s true.
And what you said about authors needing to respect the art. . . priceless. Thank you.
Gah well on re-read I sound like some stuffy old lady going on about “respect”. But, so what, I still mean it. Imagine I’m wearing a silly hat and clown shoes while I type. 😉
What is the “respect” that readers should be giving the art? I guess that is what I don’t understand. How does the respect manifest itself from a reader? That statement, made against the backdrop of this past week, seems to infer that respect is by passive acceptance of the book, no matter what its problems are.
What is the disrespectful actions taken by readers toward a book?
‘I would ask that the critique also maintain the same respect for the ultimate goal of creating this magical living breathing vision, and not be just self-interested carping or showing off.’
Some literary analysis (which I think can be done on popular fiction as much as on ‘high art’) is also art. Maybe a parasitic sort of art, but art by many of the criteria mentioned here, such as feeling impelled to write, of doing it because it needs to be written, not for the audience, and of how it can be improved by learning the craft of writing. From that point of view, I find comments dismissing other people’s critiques for being like that of a ‘college professor’s’ an inverted compliment. Not that all professors write deathless prose, but the comment could be taken as implying that the author has some training in writing, that they are attentive to detail, that they’re widely read in their subject area and that they write because of their love for their subject.
But I would ask that the critique also maintain the same respect for the ultimate goal of creating this magical living breathing vision, and not be just self-interested carping or showing off.
That’s the respect I mean, Jane. You don’t have to give it, nobody’s making you, it’s just what I believe that writing as an art deserves and what I hope for it.
And please note that I’m not saying there should be no criticism, which seems to be a thread that gets inserted easily into this kind of discussion.
I am nowhere near as eloquent as most of you but I still want to throw this out there:
So, the author should respect his/her art (and presumably, through that, s/he’ll also respect the readers), enough not to be careless with the language.
And then, both readers and reviewers should respect themselves and the book they are critiquing enough to keep the book as the object of their review/discussion—as opposed to taking potshots at the author, his/her personal life, physical appeareance, religion, or political affiliation.
So far so good, right?
Then… Why is it that ‘I don’t want to hurt the author’s feelings, so I agonize over my review’ is a comment one reads over and over again? The object under discussion is a book (art or trash), why are the author’s feelings even impinging on the reviewer’s/reader’s conciousness?
Laura V, great point. And take the kind of reviews that are done here at the SB’s. They are an art in themselves, for sure. The humor and even the language are vivid with life of a certain kind; they are a sort of literary self-characterization that could well have been created by a very talented fiction author and become beloved throughout the universe. 😉
But I do believe Sarah and Candy are looking in the same direction I am looking, though from different perspectives. And that’s why, as I told Sarah when I sent the OP, I felt safe to have it published here.
But that’s the whole problem. Who gets to be the judge of what is valid respectful critcism and what is showing off? Was Robin showing off by marking up her mistake filled copy and citing examples from on it a reader message board. Are reviewers who are crass, snarky and mean but still convey the why the book didn’t work involved in self-interested carping?
How about the SB cover snark that I so love? Are Candy and Sarah showing off, involved in self-interested carping? If so, how are they respecting the genre?
Is it the authors that get to decide if the readers/reviewers are respecting the genre? Or isn’t it all just a matter of perspective. By asking for more “respect”, aren’t you impliedly saying the there is a certain type of review of that you find more valid than another?
I can’t answer those questions Jane. Only the person writing the review or making the comment can answer for themselves.
I’m not “asking” for anything. I didn’t read that whole thread you mention so I don’t know what was in it particularly.
Also, I never said the “genre” (the romance genre) should be respected, per se. I said the art of writing fiction as a whole deserves it. Does that mean you never get to snark again, or aren’t supposed to enjoy it? Of course not, it would be silly to think so.
But underlying that, somewhere, is what I believe and maybe you don’t, which is that the art as a whole IS an art, and has a value beyond snark. That it is a lovely thing that brings joy and wonder beyond what even the best hamburger could ever bring, because any given hamburger, no matter how great, can’t change the world.
A book can change the world, and some have.
It’s just a point that I thought was getting lost amid the discussion of commercialization and such, so I wrote the OP.
But that’s the whole problem. Who gets to be the judge of what is valid respectful critcism and what is showing off?
No one. Everyone. I’ve read a (very) few reviews that have ticked me off. Not here, not at Dear Author. Actually, I don’t remember where, but one was vitriolic, with a fuck you very much opening and a general author attack.
Other people thought it was valid.
There was a kafuffle a while back in sff circles about mocking Touched by Venom by Janine Cross. Some people thought others crossed the line. Other people thought nothing of the sort. (I didn’t actually follow it closely enough to form a strong opinion.)
Yeah, so I dunno. That said, I absolutely believe readers should be able to state their honest opinions about books. It’s important. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt at times, but it’s important.
>The object under discussion is a book (art or trash), why > are the author’s feelings even impinging on the >reviewer’s/reader’s conciousness?
I know, I know. Book. Author. Two separate objects, right? But, well, not exactly, imo. This same converastion goes on in workshops and critiquing circles. People dread giving a critique and realizing that they have apparently devastated the author when they were only trying to be helpful.
I’m sure there are some hardy souls who really feel no pain whatsoever at any and all criticism of their writing. But honestly? I think most writers cannot entirely divorce themselves from the book. Myself, I will just have to deal, and know that if I’m lucky enough to get any readers—still feels like a pipedream—I will at least be thrilled someone read it.
Final statement, sorry to get so long, and it doesn’t particularly follow but it’s important: I don’t think the author should come between the reader and the book. I certainly prefer a one on one when I’m reading.
Thank you for clarifying this, Laura. I have to admit, I initially misinterpreted that part of your post regarding having (and showing) respect for the art. In fact, I mis-read it so badly, this is what I wrote Sarah after the two of us first received your e-mail and were discussing the issue just between the two of us: “(…) I’m not sure that what the process creates is always necessarily art—or GOOD art, at any event. Some people are compelled by their muse to draw anthropomorphic squirrels with giant penises fucking anthropomorphic badgers up the ass, after all. I disagree with [Kinsale’s] claim that you need to respect what comes out of as a result of the muse, because I sure as hell don’t need to respect furry porn.”
Anyway, your comments on this have greatly clarified what you meant, for which I thank you. I agree that paying attention to craft is a sign of respect for the art, and that the artist needs to respect the art just as much (if not even more) than the consumers and critics do.
And I also agree that some rules in art can be broken, and broken to great effect. William Faulkner, James Joyce, Carol Shields, Irvine Welsh and other authors have managed to bend, twist and manipulate language in very interesting ways, and I can respect and appreciate the skill even when I don’t enjoy the results (to this day, I wish I could get back the hours I spent reading The Stone Diaries, because DAMN I hated that book). However, breaking the rules for effect is very different from breaking the rules because you don’t understand them, and some authors seem to think readers can’t tell the difference—hell, some authors can’t seem to tell the difference themselves.
(My bit o’ snark about not understanding an author’s art because I can’t understand her sentences was directed at Adele Ashworth’s comments on AAR, by the way, and not at what you’ve said.)
I’d be lying if I said that I don’t sometimes enjoy arguing just for the sake of arguing, and yeah, I’ll cop to loving the sound of my own voice, too. It’s certainly something I’ll watch out for—it’s somewhat disrespectful, yeah, but it’s also somewhat unhealthy.
Absolutely. I think if more people respected the art as much as you do, Laura, that there’d be a whole lot less drek in the marketplace. And by people, I don’t just mean authors, reviewers and readers (which are by no means mutually exclusive categories). I’m talking about editors and publishers, too.
Just one more thing: just as we need to show respect for the art, we need to be able to respect our capacity to engage with the art, and the multitude of reactions that result. You don’t have to like it or agree with it, but I think that respecting it is key.
I have nothing meaningful to add to this awesome conversation. So I decided to contribute in another way.
Not less than an hour ago, in honor of the fantabulousness of this thread, I ate a Big Mac with hot mustard and medium french fries. And because I respect you all so much, I refuse to think about the loss of willpower and discipline that it took to scarf down all that fatty goodness.
LOL, kudos to you, anu439! I haven’t had a Big Mac in years. Sounds like a plan. Micky D’s, here I come… 🙂
—MRM
Thanks so much for the reply, Laura! IMO, it means a lot that you would take the time to share your experiences and to nuance your original letter. I certainly understand a bit better where you’re coming from now.
Not less than an hour ago, in honor of the fantabulousness of this thread, I ate a Big Mac with hot mustard and medium french fries. And because I respect you all so much, I refuse to think about the loss of willpower and discipline that it took to scarf down all that fatty goodness.
And I, alas, ended up with a salad; NOT because I didn’t want the “fatty goodness” of a burger (witness the fact that I had two scoops of Baskin-Robbins ice cream for dessert—pistachio almond and turtle cheesecake in a waffle cone), but because the restaurant I went to has the most AWESOME salads with house smoked chicken, raspberry vinaigrette, and lots of avocado, veggies, candied walnuts, goat cheese, and mixed greens. Yum. Plus I had a burger for dinner last night.
LOL, kudos to you, anu439! I haven’t had a Big Mac in years. Sounds like a plan. Micky D’s, here I come… grin
Make sure you have fries, too. Julia Child always swore that McDonald’s had the best french fries, and after years of sampling, I agree with her. Just enough crisp, just enough salt, and just enough grease. Yummy!