I constantly hear from writers frustrated with the state of contemporary literature. They point out all the garbage being published and rail against the fact that their stories get rejected. We all do that from time to time. I certainly indulge in howling at the publishing moon now and then. But I wonder if it truly is the industry’s fault or if sometimes it’s a symptom of our own mood.
For example, over the weekend, I read three short stories in a prestigious literary journal. The publication itself is well-respected and pieces from its pages consistently appear in the annual “Best Of” publications. The three writers were acclaimed authors and creative writing instructors with high-profile publications to their credit.
Yet, I could not find one single reason why any of these three stories was fit for wasting the journal’s paper. Trees died for these entirely uninspiring and unremarkable stories. Money that could have bought a Big Mac value meal was wasted on these cold and unappealing stories. On another day, I might rant at the industry, curse the editors, and growl at the money I spent on this journal. But maybe I was lacking my normal vim and vigor. Or maybe I was just being more honest with myself. Maybe, I’m the problem with these stories.
As writers, we read a great deal (or, at least we should) and most of the time, we’re not just reading for pleasure. We’re examining, deconstructing, and analyzing. We’re trying to figure out what works and what editors want. It’s not unusual for me to read three books and several magazines in one week. There are times when I become so numb to literature that I worry even Cormac McCarthy or William Faulkner would be incapable of penetrating my shell. Usually when this happens, I slow down my reading, try to change up my sources, and hope that I encounter a new, exciting work to cure the malaise.
Which brings me back to the point about writers who complain about editorial choices. It’s easy to point at Nicole Ritchie or McCauley Culkin as proof of the industry gone sour. Few literary minded folks would argue with those criticisms. But think of all the dozens of stories you read in the small literary journals that leave you cold and uninvolved. These aren’t quite so obvious targets. There usually isn’t anything specifically and noticeably wrong with these stories, they just don’t grab you. When you read something in The Toilet Paper Review and it leaves you wanting, is it because the story is poorly executed or because you’re just going through a period where you are invulnerable to the effects of literature.
If I encountered those three stories in January, is it possible I would have loved them? If I stumbled across those pages in May, is it possible they would have kept me up at night?
How do you break out of your reading numb spells?
I dunno Scott - I read ferociously. I consume everything - anything.
I have one book in the ladies room… One at my bedside - one in the living room - one always stashed in the car, in case I have to wait… I read just as much as I write.
But there are days that what I read - while I can recognize talent - I see things that others I know… well they could do so much better… Or even me - who has never been published - I think I could do much better.
And it bothers me. NOT because THEY are published… But the very fact that I MUST BE AT FAULT.
Strange - I think I am at fault… Because I must not have been at the right place at the right time. I gave up too soon. I didn’t hand it to the right person. I’m a day late and a few hundred thousand short. I’m not writing the right stuff for today - but maybe for yesterday. I didn’t take enough time to edit and polish.
Those kinds of things.
I never think -oh my goodnes- why is that person published and I am not. Because then I get the guilties… the creeping feeling of failure.
However - I think those things that leave you unmoved - are personal choices.
Someone out there likes Hustler stories - someone out there likes reading comic book plots - someone out there likes reading high brow literary - someone out there likes reading pulp fiction or westerns or fantasy or romances…
And some days you don’t like a certain genre or style of writing. It’s all about mood - setting, feelings and more.
For example:
After a really snowy winter - the last thing I want to read is a book about the winter snow.
After a horrible plane ride that I just “knew” was going to crash - I don’t want anything to do with Plane wreck stories.
Etc. ad infinitum.
It all depends on the mood and personal choices. You could hand me a Louis L’amour book - and I’d probably shelve it forever… I know Louis can write - but I don’t care for that style - so I’d really have to be on a deserted island to get into it. To waste my time…
Oh oh oh - and that’s another thing, LOL! - Wasting time… If you read something and you don’t click with it because you’re in a sour mood and it’s just not what you wanted to read - part of your reaction is that you’ve wasted time, possibly money - and together that sucks. LOL!
Alright I’m done writing - I figured I ought to answer - since no one else has…
Have a great day - I’ve read one chapter of that book already - Got it yesterday.
I don’t know what to classify it as. It’s very oddly written. No ” quotes for conversations ” It’s like a constant stream of conciousness. Very odd. I don’t know if I like it or hate it. I’ll have to finish it first. One thing - once you force yourself through it - it does leave an impression. I’m just not sure of what kind of impression. It falls into the category - for me, anyhow - as low brow literary. Like poetic art on stage - spoken constantly in a monotone.
Did you read it?
Lady M
Excuse the typos abounding — I’m hitting the hay - and typing without reading the screen.
When I read something in a literary journal, etc that I don’t like, I sometimes know it is just a style or type I’m not fond of, but when that doesn’t apply, I just usually figure I’m not smart enough. EXCEPT sometimes it seems that the problem is truly not the best writing. What I’d love to have someone do is compare something of mine that I think is really good but not published with something similar that is and explain why the published story was worthy of publication and mine was not, and not just say “it’s subjective.”
When I am tried of reading, I take a break. I am a slow reader and find the the Sunday NYTimes alone usually takes me all week to finish. I keep thinking maybe I should stop subscribing but there is so much interesting stuff in it, even things I can use in stories and novels.
CA
Watching really, really bad movies helps break up not only reading ruts but creative ones too. I remember an old interview with Bob Hope, who said that when he had difficulty producing material or needed to work a problem out in his mind he headed for the theater so he could catch not a good film but a terrible one, the idea being that the second-rate acting, writing, etc. allowed his brain to zone out in a productive way. Indeed this little exercise is a very effective, non-traditional form of meditation.
Or, read something really bad. That will also also break up the malaise. You can learn just as much about craft from the terrible stuff as you can from reading material that knocks your head back. Plus, you will get an instant boost of self-esteem knowing that you did not name the title of your novel “Caress of a Psychopath” or “Blood Touch: The Fangs Return.”
CA’s post reminded me of my own reactions to stories I read, especially when I come across, for instance, a short story in The New Yorker that leaves me wondering what was so good about it. Perhaps the size of The New Yorker’s circulation doesn’t make it a great example (it rarely publishes bad fiction anyway), but the small literary journals are no different. And Lady M is exactly right; stories that I read a week ago, a year ago, a decade ago: the books and authors upon which epiphanies can be timelined are, to a very large extent, simply a matter of the mood or place at the time and rarely make up what some would characterize as their own deliberate, writerly evolution. My Kerouac phase took place while driving across the country one summer, getting work where I could find it, sleeping in my car or camping on beaches, fighting with my travel companions, climbing in the Wind River Range…all in all a messy, random, great experience that makes me wonder if my impression of the “The Dharma Bums” would have been the same had I read it lying in my hammock in the backyard. Mmmm. Probably not.
Some mainstream literary work isn’t all that mainstream. It’s completely disconnected with the main artery of pop culture. Not Paris Hilton pop culture, but the centerline of entertainment and enlightenment that middle America rides. That’s a fancy way of saying the it’s just boring. Or dreary. Or so quaint it dissolves on the page and is never internalized by the reader.
Nice blog by the way.
I’ve recently been playing catchup with five top journals, about a year and a half’s worth of each. While I’m left shaking my head with the majority of them, and I am allowing for overdosing (that’s when I pull out the McCarthy, Faulkner or Marquez), I can still find one–or even just a phrase in one–that makes me shake my head in admiration instead. Thanks for bringing this point up; I’ve been trying to tell myself it’s just me.