I read a book recently by an old friend. She is a wonderful short story writer- but I've been consistently disappointed by her novels. She just can't sustain story lines in a convincing fashion. And turns out that she is a literary snob. Standards- yes, important to maintain. But snobbishness is not cool in my book.
Her book was rather autobiographical- which kind of disturbed me to begin with, as it was jarring- there was no logical reason for the bits of herself that she trotted out. I know what she was trying to attempt, but it was surprisingly poorly done.
Then there was the story itself. Part of it was about being a romance novelist. And how horrible that is for anyone who can really write. That's where I got pissed off. Now for a very deep, and dark secret- I have read the occasional romance novel. Was avidly into them when I was around 12. Snuck them home from the library, and was off in another place. Not really good for me at the time- it did probably set me up for some reality checks later- but there were hours of fun involved anyway.
I see romance novels as interesting. They are so easy to decode, and have such a clearly defined formula. And I don't think that's a bad thing. I think of all types of fiction that I've encountered, the romance novel comes the closest to illustrating a certain kind of zeitgeist. These books really pull on archetypes in a clear and meaningful way- for lots and lots of people. I don't feel like it's fair to condemn them for reading them. Not fair at all. Maybe they aren't Balzac, Trollope or even Elliott, but they give the reader something to enjoy. And given how many women probably are one romance novel away from going batshit on any given day, I say, read on, sisters.
The other thing about her book that was rather nasty had to do with a Native American character. I remember a painting that Kenga and I saw at the Heard Museum in Phoenix. For those not familiar- wonderful museum of Native American art, culture and history. The katchina room is as creepy as it gets- chock full o hoodoo that made the back of my neck crawl. Back to the painting. It was modeled on Ingres's Jupiter and Thetis, with a Native American guy enthroned, and a white woman beneath him, with a hand crawling up his neck. She was wearing her obligatory bead earrings, and looking at him with naked adoration. It was one of the most underhanded artistic jabs that I've seen (short of a Diego Rivera portrait that I saw once- about busted a gut laughing at how he portrayed the sitters...nasty...). She was a poser. He was not real to her. He was an image of her rebellion, romantic longing, etc.
So back to the book- the character in it was basically ditto the painting. It was unpleasant. I don't enjoy stereotypes unless there's a way to break them. She didn't pull that one off. The stereotype was full on intact by the end, and the slam on romance authors/readers also intact. I saw this as dishonest. And I'm too much of a wuss to ever tell her to her face...
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4 comments:
not too many people are good at sustaining the marathon that is writing--especially a novel. but here's the catch for me: I think bad novelists are also even worse at short stories. People THINK they can compress information into shorts, but they fail miserably. In essence, a good short story is harder to pen than a novel. The novel gives you a much larger milieu in which to formulate and expand ideas, and even create an arc. A short story is constraining and limiting--in a great way. I have actually struggled much more in trying to compress information into something short, than in writing my book. I think people/writers are under the impression that anything with "short" in its title is easy. Quite the opposite.
Romance novels. There used to be a time during which I looked upon those who wrote them and those who read them as complete idjits. But, as with all things, age has brought about a certain amount of wisdom. I agree (now) with your analysis of romance trash. It is quite valid.
By the way, Balzac never really worked for me. Nor did Shakespeare. Mention the old fool in my presence and watch me shrink right there, in front of your eyes.
I can't write short stories for shit. So I always admired those who could. Like Kenga. And this woman. She's really, really good. But the book made me sad. I don't know what the problem is- she just can't sustain the story over 40 pages or so.
Shakespeare isn't my favorite either. I've gotten over him in a big way. It was fun to act all snobbish in high school and read him during study hall. But then I discovered that he was kind of boring. I am a Proust kinda girl. Like it or not. That's my lot in life, I think. (thus the inability to hone down to short stories)
Who is Kenga? I've never heard of him. Is he African? I'm bad with African lit.
Kenga is my husband. I got tired of calling him Spouse, and my friend Scott reminded me of an old nickname that works pretty well. He is a brilliant writer- who refuses to write. Says he's no good at it. Frustrates the hell out of me- as he is far better than I will ever be. Mr. Jerky McJerkjerk.
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