I have been sharing my writing with people online since I was about fifteen. I have been selling my books for money since I was twenty-two. I am now twenty-five, and while I am still naive about many facets of life, publishing and author professionalism are not among them.*
*Although this is not to say that I have not done stupid things in the past. I have had moments of unprofessionalism, but they are nothing I am too ashamed of. I think of my mistakes both as a learning experience and as an exercise in humility: none of us are above making asses of ourselves.
Recently, however, there have been a lot of authors making asses of themselves. And they are spewing all this shit into the blogosphere like they think it's Chanel No.5 and we should be grateful for having their virtual stink thrust upon us. Um, yeah, no thanks. As an independent author, I am already at a distinct disadvantage career-wise without having other authors try to authorsplain* to the world about why they are entitled to act like stalkalicious* jerkmobiles*.
*These are all totally real words by the way. You can look them up easily in your Neniapedia.
Some authors say that their books are like their babies. I think that's a bad analogy. I think a better analogy is that macaroni picture you made in kindergarten. You may think it's great, and of course, your parents (and friends) are going to think it's great, but this egocentric bubble of unconditional positive thinking has no bearing on what the world at large is going to make of your work.
I write books. They are not me, and I am not them. Some of the characters may be reflections of various things that have happened in my life, but that doesn't make them autobiographical. When I write, I tend to write from a point of being emotionally removed. This way, my own thoughts and feelings and morals and beliefs don't get in the way of the characterization.
Because I. Am. Not. My. Characters.
I won't lie and say that negative reviews never hurt, because they do -- sometimes a lot. I'm at a point where most of them just have me scrolling past. I don't need to know what they say particularly, because I've seen it all before, and I know that they usually aren't written for me. I've been revenge-reviewed, I've been spite-reviewed; I've been attacked by sock puppets; I've had people lie, threaten, and deride; I've even received negative reviews from my friends. And we're still friends.
Here's why. Because I am always grateful when someone takes the chance to read one of my books. If they didn't like it, that's unfortunate; I really do feel bad when someone feels like they've wasted their money after reading one of my books. But it's not something I have any control over, so I don't focus on it. I don't interrogate them, or demand a follow-up because I know that reading is personal, a matter of taste. Sometimes there is no explanation, and it's certainly not my place to demand one.
Because I. Am. Not. My. Books.
Reviews are not personal attacks. They weren't even really meant for me to read (although I read them anyway). Reviews are for other readers -- and often, they were written as a cathartic release for the reviewer who wrote it. I know that when I write my reviews, they were written to remind me of my thoughts and feelings during the reading process to refer to again later when making purchasing decisions. I comment on reviews to thank, and I only do it for reviews higher than two. I used to thank everyone, but too many people felt uncomfortable or thought I was being sarcastic when I thanked my one-star reviews, which really wasn't the case. I am genuinely grateful for all feedback, because any sort of response is better than being doomed to a life of obscurity.
Most people who read my books seem to enjoy them, and that makes me happy. Yes, there are people who read my books and don't enjoy them, but that's okay, too. It means my reviews are honest. It means that the people writing me negative reviews (presumably) feel safe enough to leave them for my books, because they know that I'm not going to commence Operation Stalk and post personal information on the internet, or maybe show up at their house demanding answers (or blood). It means that someone, somewhere, is reading my book, and that it's not sitting on the shelf Forever Alone.
Readers, I will not be stalking you, and here is why.
Because it's unprofessional. I conduct my behavior with the understanding that I represent not just myself as an individual, but also myself as a brand.
Because it's unkind. I am not an asshole. (At least, I try very, very hard not to be.)
Because it's not fair. An author, with her fans, severely outnumbers a lone reviewer or a small group of bloggers. I don't want to be a leading a mob.
Because it's ungrateful. If someone takes the time to read what I write, that is amazing. Most people work and have very busy schedules (kids, spouse, pets). A book is a huge commitment. A lot of people don't realize just how serious a commitment this really is.
Because it's cruel. I've been stalked and bullied. And no, not in the "boo hoo someone gave me a 1-star review" sense. I had to be put on watch by my school because I was receiving threats daily. I am empathetic towards people who undergo the psychological torture -- and yes, it is torture -- that is bullying. I went through it myself, and would never wish it on someone else. It is terrible and Wrong.
Because it's too much effort. I'm a writer. I also work about 30-35 hours/week. When I'm not working, I'd rather be reading, or out with my friends, or playing with my cats. Life is too short to spend dwelling on the negatives. Why poison your mind with what you cannot fix?
Because it's not who I am.
I am twenty-five-years old.
I am author of 15 books.
I work in customer service.
I like cats.
I consider most of my readers friends.
And I am not a stalker.
If you reviewed my books, thank you.
If you have read my books, thank you.
If you reviewed them negatively and read and hated them, thank you for being honest.
This is what should happen.
Nobody should be afraid to be heard.
Nobody should be afraid to be anything less than honest in their reviews.
I am an author, and I support readers' rights to review as they damn please without fear of retaliation.
...And you should, too.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
What's Happening Right Meow: New Cats(?)
I have always been a cat person. And we have always gotten our cats in one way: they were strays or abandoned, and a friend (or sometimes a friend of a friend) told us first instead of going to the pound. Some of these cats were more people shy than others, but all of them made great pets in the end.
When I'm not writing, I work at a department store. Today they had me working in the pets department, so I smelled like cat food. When I walked from my car, two cats followed me to the porch. They were both very people shy, but I was able to talk to one of them until it came over. I recognized it as the black one that's been sleeping under my car for the past week or so.
Both of them were rail thin.
I felt really bad that I smelled like food and wasn't giving them any, so I told my mom. We put out some food -- tuna, milk, and water. While they ate, my sister and I talked to and petted them and my mother and brother went out to buy cat food.
They are so skinny it breaks my heart, and the black one flinched every time I petted it. The white one looks like someone marked it with spray paint and broke its tail. They have the sweetest faces and can't be more than a year old, and yet both of them flinch at every noise, and pace, making sure they know where everyone is at all times. The fluffy one's haunches are actually concave...
Let me just say that there is a special place in hell for people who abuse animals.
There is no excuse.
Thanks for my new cats, assholes. We'll give them a loving home.
When I'm not writing, I work at a department store. Today they had me working in the pets department, so I smelled like cat food. When I walked from my car, two cats followed me to the porch. They were both very people shy, but I was able to talk to one of them until it came over. I recognized it as the black one that's been sleeping under my car for the past week or so.
Both of them were rail thin.
I felt really bad that I smelled like food and wasn't giving them any, so I told my mom. We put out some food -- tuna, milk, and water. While they ate, my sister and I talked to and petted them and my mother and brother went out to buy cat food.
They are so skinny it breaks my heart, and the black one flinched every time I petted it. The white one looks like someone marked it with spray paint and broke its tail. They have the sweetest faces and can't be more than a year old, and yet both of them flinch at every noise, and pace, making sure they know where everyone is at all times. The fluffy one's haunches are actually concave...
Let me just say that there is a special place in hell for people who abuse animals.
There is no excuse.
Thanks for my new cats, assholes. We'll give them a loving home.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Feeling Decadent: New Book Summary Reveal
I posted the summary to my new book last night! It's called Decadence, and it's basically a take on the rich boy/poor girl stereotype ... with a twist. Namely, that everyone in the book makes questionable moral decisions for the sake of (*cue horror movie scream*) power and popularity.
I don't normally write contemporary YA or NA romances because drama and angst and sex for the sake of sex just aren't interesting to me at all, not as a reader or as a writer. That isn't to say that I am incapable of enjoying these things at all. It's like chocolate, you know. There's cheap, drug-store chocolate -- and then there's Swiss dark melts-slowly-in-your-mouth-to-perfection chocolate. Some people like both, some people prefer one or the other. I am a chocolate snob ... and a YA/NA snob.
I was inspired to write Decadence because of my growing frustration with contemporary YA/NA as a whole, which could easily be renamed "straight, white cis couples kissing" based on the covers. YA -- and especially NA -- rarely cover important issues, like ableism, race, stereotypes, drug use, suicide, or abuse, or when they do it is in a way that is so over the top or ridiculous as to be almost offensive.
My book will deal with most of these concepts -- and more. Maybe I'll get some of it wrong. Maybe I'll end up offending someone. But at least I'll know that I tried to write something different.
---
“I bet they told you at orientation that Ashgrove wasn't like your old school.”
Rachael Williams is the only black student at the exclusive private school, Ashgrove Heights. Through hard work and sheer luck she's managed to crawl out of the lowest moment of her life. At orientation, she meets a girl who has been driven out through vicious, violent bullying, who warns her to keep her head down: the students aren't what they seem.
Andrew Worth is broken inside. He's considered suicide, but he'd rather stick around and make everyone else feel miserable. His grades are falling, he does every drug that's bottled and sold, and everyone's terrified of what he'll do next.
Daphne Kim is the school's golden girl. When someone fucks with her, she fucks back--harder and better. Her boyfriend knows that better than anyone. She's the only one who can stop Andrew from his downward spiral, but she's having too much fun watching.
When Andrew's father hires Rachael to tutor his son after she's announced as valedictorian, Rachael gets mixed up in the popular kids' Machiavellian hierarchy of sex, power, and scandal. It's a dangerous game, but if she doesn't play they'll eat her alive.
I don't normally write contemporary YA or NA romances because drama and angst and sex for the sake of sex just aren't interesting to me at all, not as a reader or as a writer. That isn't to say that I am incapable of enjoying these things at all. It's like chocolate, you know. There's cheap, drug-store chocolate -- and then there's Swiss dark melts-slowly-in-your-mouth-to-perfection chocolate. Some people like both, some people prefer one or the other. I am a chocolate snob ... and a YA/NA snob.
I was inspired to write Decadence because of my growing frustration with contemporary YA/NA as a whole, which could easily be renamed "straight, white cis couples kissing" based on the covers. YA -- and especially NA -- rarely cover important issues, like ableism, race, stereotypes, drug use, suicide, or abuse, or when they do it is in a way that is so over the top or ridiculous as to be almost offensive.
My book will deal with most of these concepts -- and more. Maybe I'll get some of it wrong. Maybe I'll end up offending someone. But at least I'll know that I tried to write something different.
---
“I bet they told you at orientation that Ashgrove wasn't like your old school.”
Rachael Williams is the only black student at the exclusive private school, Ashgrove Heights. Through hard work and sheer luck she's managed to crawl out of the lowest moment of her life. At orientation, she meets a girl who has been driven out through vicious, violent bullying, who warns her to keep her head down: the students aren't what they seem.
Andrew Worth is broken inside. He's considered suicide, but he'd rather stick around and make everyone else feel miserable. His grades are falling, he does every drug that's bottled and sold, and everyone's terrified of what he'll do next.
Daphne Kim is the school's golden girl. When someone fucks with her, she fucks back--harder and better. Her boyfriend knows that better than anyone. She's the only one who can stop Andrew from his downward spiral, but she's having too much fun watching.
When Andrew's father hires Rachael to tutor his son after she's announced as valedictorian, Rachael gets mixed up in the popular kids' Machiavellian hierarchy of sex, power, and scandal. It's a dangerous game, but if she doesn't play they'll eat her alive.
Friday, October 10, 2014
The Secret Shame: On Buying and Reading Romance Novels
I collect vintage historical romances. They're so dated and I love how they are completely unlike anything published today. Yes, they are cheesy as hell and politically incorrect as all get-out, but that's part of their charm. I love charming classic regency novels; I love the dark, epic sagas contained in bodice rippers penned during the 70s and 80s; I love the sensationalist fictional biographies; I love the big-hair and fast-cars glitter-trash novels from the 80s and 90s.
Basically, I love romance novels.
I didn't used to, though. I used to look down on the women who read them, because I had always been told, either directly or through stereotypes in the media, that romance novels were for women of below-average intelligence, women who were too unattractive to get a man and therefore had to resort to ill-written fantasy, women who were, basically, like nothing I wanted to be.
Oh, I was wrong. So, so wrong.
The first romance novelist I ever read was Lisa Kleypas. I was recommended her by a friend I held in high esteem. A lot of my friends, who were definitely not stupid or pathetic -- as far from it as possible, actually -- were reading romance novels and I began to wonder if there was something to the genre after all. Kleypas's smart prose and sparkling wit won me over almost immediately.
From Kleypas, I moved on to Julia Quinn, Mary Stewart, Victoria Holt, and then, later, Courtney Milan. Now, I'll read almost everything once. I may not like all of what I read, and there are definitely some cringe-worthy romance novels that do the genre as a whole ill, but there are a lot of wonderful, amazing, deep romance novels that are just, well, romantic. With a capital 'R.'
A few months ago, I was shopping at a thrift store for my favorite kind of goodies and a man asked what I was looking for, and I said, "Vintage romance novels." He then proceeded to inform me that he had always thought romance novels were stupid, until he realized that some of the older ones were actually worth money to collectors. I gave him a tight smile and said, "Well, I enjoy reading them."
Creepy McJudgingyou couldn't take a hint, and proceeded to follow me around the store, bragging about some of his best finds. "I actually found a signed first edition of Gone with the Wind," he said, "I sold it for forty grand. Someone must have really messed up not to catch that, huh?"
I had stopped responding by that point, because he was starting to piss me off.
And the irony of my reaction was not lost on me. Because I used to think like that, too. A lot of people do.
Romance is a huge market. According to NPR, it's a 1.4 billion dollar industry. Other genres don't even come close in terms of netted profit. What makes it even more amazing is that romance is one of the few genres (apart from maybe YA -- although John Green has tipped the scales in that scene, and not necessarily for the better) that is dominated by women.
And yet, despite its popularity, and its ability to bring in money, the romance genre is almost constantly mocked, and so are the women who read in the genre. Does the fact that it's a genre geared almost entirely towards women have anything to do with this? I can't help but wonder if that's the case -- that a genre targeted towards women must automatically be inferior, both from an intellectual standpoint and from a standpoint of cultural significance.
Because, despite advancements made in the treatment of women, things still aren't completely equal. Women are still shamed for pursuing sex. Women are shamed for talking about sex. Women are shamed for showing interest in sex. And women are shamed for reading and writing romance novels.
Even when they're good.
Even when they consistently out-sell all other genres.
Why?
Well, that's the 1.4 billion dollar question, isn't it?
I, for one, will be happily, and unabashedly, reading my bodice-rippers in public -- not in a paper bag.
Further reading:
Romance Novels, The Last Great Bastion of Underground Writing (The Awl)
Beyond Bodice-Rippers: How Romance Novels Came to Embrace Feminism (The Atlantic)
Basically, I love romance novels.
I didn't used to, though. I used to look down on the women who read them, because I had always been told, either directly or through stereotypes in the media, that romance novels were for women of below-average intelligence, women who were too unattractive to get a man and therefore had to resort to ill-written fantasy, women who were, basically, like nothing I wanted to be.
Oh, I was wrong. So, so wrong.
The first romance novelist I ever read was Lisa Kleypas. I was recommended her by a friend I held in high esteem. A lot of my friends, who were definitely not stupid or pathetic -- as far from it as possible, actually -- were reading romance novels and I began to wonder if there was something to the genre after all. Kleypas's smart prose and sparkling wit won me over almost immediately.
From Kleypas, I moved on to Julia Quinn, Mary Stewart, Victoria Holt, and then, later, Courtney Milan. Now, I'll read almost everything once. I may not like all of what I read, and there are definitely some cringe-worthy romance novels that do the genre as a whole ill, but there are a lot of wonderful, amazing, deep romance novels that are just, well, romantic. With a capital 'R.'
A few months ago, I was shopping at a thrift store for my favorite kind of goodies and a man asked what I was looking for, and I said, "Vintage romance novels." He then proceeded to inform me that he had always thought romance novels were stupid, until he realized that some of the older ones were actually worth money to collectors. I gave him a tight smile and said, "Well, I enjoy reading them."
Creepy McJudgingyou couldn't take a hint, and proceeded to follow me around the store, bragging about some of his best finds. "I actually found a signed first edition of Gone with the Wind," he said, "I sold it for forty grand. Someone must have really messed up not to catch that, huh?"
I had stopped responding by that point, because he was starting to piss me off.
And the irony of my reaction was not lost on me. Because I used to think like that, too. A lot of people do.
Romance is a huge market. According to NPR, it's a 1.4 billion dollar industry. Other genres don't even come close in terms of netted profit. What makes it even more amazing is that romance is one of the few genres (apart from maybe YA -- although John Green has tipped the scales in that scene, and not necessarily for the better) that is dominated by women.
And yet, despite its popularity, and its ability to bring in money, the romance genre is almost constantly mocked, and so are the women who read in the genre. Does the fact that it's a genre geared almost entirely towards women have anything to do with this? I can't help but wonder if that's the case -- that a genre targeted towards women must automatically be inferior, both from an intellectual standpoint and from a standpoint of cultural significance.
Because, despite advancements made in the treatment of women, things still aren't completely equal. Women are still shamed for pursuing sex. Women are shamed for talking about sex. Women are shamed for showing interest in sex. And women are shamed for reading and writing romance novels.
Even when they're good.
Even when they consistently out-sell all other genres.
Why?
Well, that's the 1.4 billion dollar question, isn't it?
I, for one, will be happily, and unabashedly, reading my bodice-rippers in public -- not in a paper bag.
Further reading:
Romance Novels, The Last Great Bastion of Underground Writing (The Awl)
Beyond Bodice-Rippers: How Romance Novels Came to Embrace Feminism (The Atlantic)
Thursday, October 9, 2014
The '(f)Art' in Literary Fiction: What Smells in Here?
Every book reviewer has a different scale for rating the books that they have read, and really, a subjective star rating only scratches at the surface of the complicated interplay of reason and emotion that goes through the head of a reader while experiencing a book.
I do not rate based on literary merit. I have friends that do, and this is fine because that is their system and not mine, but I do not; instead, I rate solely based on entertainment. This is how books like Pet to the Tentacle Monsters! can get three stars, whereas literary wunderkind Dave Eggers' latest book, The Circle, can get one.
My personal philosophy is that there is no "higher plane" of judgement that makes literature exempt from the entertainment rubric that applies to trashy mass-market paperbacks. Books were written to be read. They were meant to be enjoyed (with the possible exception of Fifty Shades of Grey; I'm pretty sure they force prisoners in Guantanamo Bay to listen to a special audiobook edition narrated by Gilbert Gottfried and Bette Midler when they're trying to draw confessions).
I mean, really. When you think about it, should a book automatically be granted five stars just because it managed to stay in print for 200+ years? That's like giving a student an A just because they decided to come in to class.
And yet, it never fails to surprise me how many people believe this unspoken assumption that all classics should be rated with 4- or 5-star ratings, and how quick they are to judge you if you don't. I have one-starred my fair share of classic and modern literature, and received more than my fair share of criticisms because of it, and the arguments almost always open up in the same way each time (always from someone who has five-starred the book).
Let's briefly go over some of the distinguishing characteristics of literary fiction that make it stand out from its lesser brethren.
Someone--either The New York Times, a professor at Harvard, or Oprah--has deemed this book "literature," which is a weighted term that indicates that the book contains some other quality that surpasses mere entertainment. Usually, this means that it touches upon some relevant, controversial issue (AIDS, racism, sexism, the holocaust) or Areas of Interest in the news (i.e. Africa, the Balkans).
The book is usually written in a certain way: it gets funky with punctuation (Jose Saramago, Cormac McCarthy, I'm looking at you); it uses flowery, convoluted prose (Tea Obreht, Iris Murdoch, Charlotte Bronte); it does the literary equivalent of jumping up and down on a desk, waving your arms, and shouting, "I'm a fucking intellectual!" (I think we all know I'm talking about Dave Eggers. But just to be clear, I'm talking about Dave Eggers.)
This literary book isn't meant to be entertaining, it's meant to be art.
Sometimes, a work of literary fiction can be both. But usually, it is not. And if you down-rate a book that meets these qualifications just because you, personally, did not enjoy it, people get mad.
I have been thinking about this, and I have come to the conclusion that it's because literary fiction attracts a certain kind of individual who reads certain kinds of books because they believe that the books they read say something about who they are as a person (read: "I'm a fucking intellectual!").
I can't think of any other reason why people would get so consistently angry about what other people say of the classics, unless they had some sort of personal or emotional investment in the book. And I think that comes down to the crux of the issue. There is a dark side to the literary fiction community, rife with intellectual snobbery and inferiority complexes. Reading books too complex for the casual reader gives them a sense of satisfaction that is disrupted when they see someone writing a review about why the book is no longer culturally relevant from an entertainment perspective.
Because--*gasp*--what if that means that they were wrong?
The snob reader's opening argument is usually a quick soundbite that reads as if it's been cribbed from a college professor or a dog-earred copy of Cliffnotes. Didn't like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? Don't you know it's about "the death of the American Dream"?
The SR generally backs up their argument with an attack on the reader's intelligence.
"You clearly didn't read the book."
"Sorry this wasn't the beach read you expected."
"I've never seen such a willfully ignorant interpretation of a book."
(Watch out; the SR knows how to utilize thesaurus.com.)
Entering into these kinds of arguments is never a good idea, because they tend to be highly cyclic. I suspect this is because the SR often has no idea what the book they are defending is even really about, beyond what they were told it was about, and once they get tired of repeating the soundbite they will just resort to personal attacks, because "dumb slut" is a phrase that most everyone understands.
Ad hominems aside, I do think that part of the reason that literary fiction persists through the ages is because of what the books symbolize, rather than what the books are actually about, and how people apply that symbolism to their definition of themselves. For example, if a person claims that Charlotte Bronte is their favorite author, that suggests something about their character, their romantic inclinations, their worldview. Same goes with Hunter S. Thompson, Albert Camus, or Virginia Woolf. This is a necessary evil whenever something enters the pop cultural lexicon.
However, I do think that a book should also be able to stand on its own as a form of entertainment. If it doesn't, it will never receive a five-star rating from me. Two-star, tops. Clearly, some people are getting enjoyment out of these classics, and that is fine. But what works for one person doesn't necessarily work for all people, and I think shaming people for disliking a work of literary fiction (or any written work, for that matter) is wrong. Last time I checked, the definition of "art" wasn't: "you're a dumb fuck if you don't like this."
I do not rate based on literary merit. I have friends that do, and this is fine because that is their system and not mine, but I do not; instead, I rate solely based on entertainment. This is how books like Pet to the Tentacle Monsters! can get three stars, whereas literary wunderkind Dave Eggers' latest book, The Circle, can get one.
My personal philosophy is that there is no "higher plane" of judgement that makes literature exempt from the entertainment rubric that applies to trashy mass-market paperbacks. Books were written to be read. They were meant to be enjoyed (with the possible exception of Fifty Shades of Grey; I'm pretty sure they force prisoners in Guantanamo Bay to listen to a special audiobook edition narrated by Gilbert Gottfried and Bette Midler when they're trying to draw confessions).
I mean, really. When you think about it, should a book automatically be granted five stars just because it managed to stay in print for 200+ years? That's like giving a student an A just because they decided to come in to class.
And yet, it never fails to surprise me how many people believe this unspoken assumption that all classics should be rated with 4- or 5-star ratings, and how quick they are to judge you if you don't. I have one-starred my fair share of classic and modern literature, and received more than my fair share of criticisms because of it, and the arguments almost always open up in the same way each time (always from someone who has five-starred the book).
Let's briefly go over some of the distinguishing characteristics of literary fiction that make it stand out from its lesser brethren.
Someone--either The New York Times, a professor at Harvard, or Oprah--has deemed this book "literature," which is a weighted term that indicates that the book contains some other quality that surpasses mere entertainment. Usually, this means that it touches upon some relevant, controversial issue (AIDS, racism, sexism, the holocaust) or Areas of Interest in the news (i.e. Africa, the Balkans).
The book is usually written in a certain way: it gets funky with punctuation (Jose Saramago, Cormac McCarthy, I'm looking at you); it uses flowery, convoluted prose (Tea Obreht, Iris Murdoch, Charlotte Bronte); it does the literary equivalent of jumping up and down on a desk, waving your arms, and shouting, "I'm a fucking intellectual!" (I think we all know I'm talking about Dave Eggers. But just to be clear, I'm talking about Dave Eggers.)
This literary book isn't meant to be entertaining, it's meant to be art.
Sometimes, a work of literary fiction can be both. But usually, it is not. And if you down-rate a book that meets these qualifications just because you, personally, did not enjoy it, people get mad.
I have been thinking about this, and I have come to the conclusion that it's because literary fiction attracts a certain kind of individual who reads certain kinds of books because they believe that the books they read say something about who they are as a person (read: "I'm a fucking intellectual!").
I can't think of any other reason why people would get so consistently angry about what other people say of the classics, unless they had some sort of personal or emotional investment in the book. And I think that comes down to the crux of the issue. There is a dark side to the literary fiction community, rife with intellectual snobbery and inferiority complexes. Reading books too complex for the casual reader gives them a sense of satisfaction that is disrupted when they see someone writing a review about why the book is no longer culturally relevant from an entertainment perspective.
Because--*gasp*--what if that means that they were wrong?
The snob reader's opening argument is usually a quick soundbite that reads as if it's been cribbed from a college professor or a dog-earred copy of Cliffnotes. Didn't like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? Don't you know it's about "the death of the American Dream"?
The SR generally backs up their argument with an attack on the reader's intelligence.
"You clearly didn't read the book."
"Sorry this wasn't the beach read you expected."
"I've never seen such a willfully ignorant interpretation of a book."
(Watch out; the SR knows how to utilize thesaurus.com.)
Entering into these kinds of arguments is never a good idea, because they tend to be highly cyclic. I suspect this is because the SR often has no idea what the book they are defending is even really about, beyond what they were told it was about, and once they get tired of repeating the soundbite they will just resort to personal attacks, because "dumb slut" is a phrase that most everyone understands.
Ad hominems aside, I do think that part of the reason that literary fiction persists through the ages is because of what the books symbolize, rather than what the books are actually about, and how people apply that symbolism to their definition of themselves. For example, if a person claims that Charlotte Bronte is their favorite author, that suggests something about their character, their romantic inclinations, their worldview. Same goes with Hunter S. Thompson, Albert Camus, or Virginia Woolf. This is a necessary evil whenever something enters the pop cultural lexicon.
However, I do think that a book should also be able to stand on its own as a form of entertainment. If it doesn't, it will never receive a five-star rating from me. Two-star, tops. Clearly, some people are getting enjoyment out of these classics, and that is fine. But what works for one person doesn't necessarily work for all people, and I think shaming people for disliking a work of literary fiction (or any written work, for that matter) is wrong. Last time I checked, the definition of "art" wasn't: "you're a dumb fuck if you don't like this."
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Guest Book
Have a comment? A suggestion? Leave it here. I've enabled anonymous comments (although you may have to fill out one of those annoying Captcha things. I'm sorry for that, but ever since I reviewed Asa Akira's memoir, I've started receiving 100x as many porn ads as before).
Note: Comments will be moderated.
Note: Comments will be moderated.
Why New Adult Is Getting Old
It is difficult to condemn an entire genre--obviously, there are exceptions to every rule--but man is it getting old seeing the same types of books topping the best seller charts over and over again.
If, for some reason, you've been living under a rock for the last two years and somehow missed the frenzied rush to cash in on the latest trend, "new adult" is essentially older YA that takes place in the 18-24 age bracket, typically during, pre- or post-college. And everyone is doing it.
In principle, new adult is a great idea. Before the sudden explosion in popularity, the 18-24 age bracket was sorely under-represented in popular fiction. Back in college, my roommates and I loved reading YA, but it was frustrating, being stuck with characters who were so much younger than we were, and who lived in what was, by and large, a world that even Disney wouldn't mind.
When I heard some of the summaries about popular new adult titles, I was excited. Finally, I could read about characters in my age bracket who explored real, edgy issues, like drug use, sexuality, living on one's own for the first time, going off to college for the first time, and so on. I read several of the most popular new adult titles to satisfy my curiosity, and then came to a very depressing realization: these books were not about my life--and they're not about the lives of anyone I know.
Most new adult books have been reduced to a simple formula:
Girl meets boy. Boy is trouble. Girl doesn't care. They both live happily ever after.
Worse, still: these books often include gratuitous slut-shaming (i.e. punishing a woman for being sexual, or actively pursuing sex), unprotected sex, unplanned pregnancy, and domestic violence and rape masquerading as romance. It is not uncommon, for example, to have the male protagonist beat up men (and sometimes women) while the female character looks on. Usually, the male protagonist coerces the (usually virgin) heroine into a sexual relationship, during which they typically do not use a condom. At the end of the book, the heroine often finds out she's pregnant, and it ends with a wedding. They are racist, homophobic, and in general propagate a close-minded attitude that I'd really hate to see go mainstream because it is so hateful, and willfully ignorant.
If the book does take place in a college setting, it has been my experience that these colleges often resemble rich high schools. There are cliques, everyone seems to know everyone, and nobody seems to spend any actual time in class pursuing higher knowledge. The heroine frequently ends up dropping out, or taking a year off, and smart people are portrayed as being ugly, bitchy, or pathetic. Most women who read are highly intelligent, even if they wouldn't describe themselves as intellectuals, necessarily, and I can't help but wonder what the appeal is in a book that is so condemnatory about what is--for me, anyway--such an integral part of who I am.
That isn't to say that there aren't any good new adult books out there--there are--but from what I have seen the bad outweigh the good. Unfortunately, until these books stop making money, they are going to keep being published, and the speed and relative convenience of self-publishing has ensured that the market will remain heavily saturated. All trends must come to an end, though, and I harbor some small hope that one day, someone will wake up and realize that the lives of men and women, ages 18 to 24, are so much more complex and meaningful than we are making them out to be.
Until that day, however, I'm going to walk the moment I see a white, straight, cis couple kissing in the rain on the cover of a book that promises me an "edgy," "gritty" tale with "dark content."
If, for some reason, you've been living under a rock for the last two years and somehow missed the frenzied rush to cash in on the latest trend, "new adult" is essentially older YA that takes place in the 18-24 age bracket, typically during, pre- or post-college. And everyone is doing it.
In principle, new adult is a great idea. Before the sudden explosion in popularity, the 18-24 age bracket was sorely under-represented in popular fiction. Back in college, my roommates and I loved reading YA, but it was frustrating, being stuck with characters who were so much younger than we were, and who lived in what was, by and large, a world that even Disney wouldn't mind.
When I heard some of the summaries about popular new adult titles, I was excited. Finally, I could read about characters in my age bracket who explored real, edgy issues, like drug use, sexuality, living on one's own for the first time, going off to college for the first time, and so on. I read several of the most popular new adult titles to satisfy my curiosity, and then came to a very depressing realization: these books were not about my life--and they're not about the lives of anyone I know.
Most new adult books have been reduced to a simple formula:
Girl meets boy. Boy is trouble. Girl doesn't care. They both live happily ever after.
Worse, still: these books often include gratuitous slut-shaming (i.e. punishing a woman for being sexual, or actively pursuing sex), unprotected sex, unplanned pregnancy, and domestic violence and rape masquerading as romance. It is not uncommon, for example, to have the male protagonist beat up men (and sometimes women) while the female character looks on. Usually, the male protagonist coerces the (usually virgin) heroine into a sexual relationship, during which they typically do not use a condom. At the end of the book, the heroine often finds out she's pregnant, and it ends with a wedding. They are racist, homophobic, and in general propagate a close-minded attitude that I'd really hate to see go mainstream because it is so hateful, and willfully ignorant.
If the book does take place in a college setting, it has been my experience that these colleges often resemble rich high schools. There are cliques, everyone seems to know everyone, and nobody seems to spend any actual time in class pursuing higher knowledge. The heroine frequently ends up dropping out, or taking a year off, and smart people are portrayed as being ugly, bitchy, or pathetic. Most women who read are highly intelligent, even if they wouldn't describe themselves as intellectuals, necessarily, and I can't help but wonder what the appeal is in a book that is so condemnatory about what is--for me, anyway--such an integral part of who I am.
That isn't to say that there aren't any good new adult books out there--there are--but from what I have seen the bad outweigh the good. Unfortunately, until these books stop making money, they are going to keep being published, and the speed and relative convenience of self-publishing has ensured that the market will remain heavily saturated. All trends must come to an end, though, and I harbor some small hope that one day, someone will wake up and realize that the lives of men and women, ages 18 to 24, are so much more complex and meaningful than we are making them out to be.
Until that day, however, I'm going to walk the moment I see a white, straight, cis couple kissing in the rain on the cover of a book that promises me an "edgy," "gritty" tale with "dark content."
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