A Publishers’ Weekly article today led me to Laura Miller’s essay in Salon.com, which in turn led me to Eleanor Catton’s essay in New Zealand’s Metro Magazine. Both should be read in sequence, and are probably a far more valuable use of reading time than my blog. I cite them because they hit a nerve with me, and I’ll take a risk and write about it. I’ve written about it before, but this seems like a timely update.
Laura Miller discusses Catton’s reactions and her own to a particular subset of online reviews. Namely, those where the reviewer strikes back against perceived ‘elitism’ by the writer: Too complex plots. Long, unfamiliar words. Big books. Books that might require a certain cultural background knowledge to ‘get’.
Catton discusses the creeping consumerism in fiction, whereby many authors and publishers appear to be self-selecting, if not self-censoring, their words and plots to appeal to as broad a consumer base as possible. That’s the nice way of saying ‘dumbing it down’.
From Catton’s essay: ‘The reader who is outraged by being “forced” to look up an unfamiliar word — characterising the writer as a tyrant, a torturer — is a consumer outraged by inconvenience and false advertising. Advertising relies on the fiction that the personal happiness of the consumer is valued above all other things; we are reassured in every way imaginable that we, the customers, are always right.’
Here’s the genesis of Catton’s inquiry: ‘What sparked these conversations was a comment made on Twitter last month in which a Kiwi reader of the Paris Review objected to the use of the word “crepuscular” — a bookish adjective that derives from the Latin crepusculum, twilight — citing the word as evidence of the writer’s self-indulgence, and claiming that the creative essay in which the word appeared was an example of elitist writing.’
Now, I know what crepuscular means. I’ve known that since I was probably twelve or thirteen, if not younger. I don’t use it in normal conversation. Like many writers, I’d probably be tempted to use a better-known synonym like shadowy or gloomy. But I reserve the right to use the Latinate word in the context where it would make sense.
Unlike many of those unhappy reviewers, Miller, Catton, and I have a different reaction to unfamiliar words. We tend to say ‘Cool! A new word. What does it mean? Dictionary…dictionary…dictionary…ah, here we go. Oh, I like that word. Gotta remember it.’
Miller points out that many of those unhappy reviewers might object to things that make them feel ignorant because ‘In truth, the only way an encounter with a strange word can make you feel ignorant is if you already fear and suspect that you really are ignorant.’
I’m not a regular reader of The Paris Review, or the kinds of books that are regularly featured there. But in my short time as a commercially published writer I’ve encountered many of the same criticisms, and had similar reactions as Miller and Catton. I dig my heels in. I love words. I read books deeply, tearing them apart for subtext and layers of plot or character development. Even when those books are considered to be fluffy little pieces of erotic romance. (Just so you know – many of them are far from fluffy, and as deeply written and plotted as anything dominating mainstream bestseller lists.)
But I can relate that ‘fear of ignorance’ quote to a larger picture of intellectual life. There is always going to be a divide between people who fear being pushed outside dogma and experience, and those who revel in it. Between those who complain ‘don’t make me learn anything’ and those who laugh and say ‘Yeah, there’s a lot of stuff I don’t know.’
‘I don’t know but I want to find out’ is our human birthright.
Inquiry is the core of all true scientific discipline. Inquiry is what got us out of Africa and helped us learn fire-handling, flint-knapping, and all those other sneaky human survival tricks. The invention of written language was another of those tricks, one so important that it allows us to transcend time and death.
So, yes, at the cost of alienating certain readers, I reserve the right to come across as possibly ‘elitist’. I’d much rather do that than write the equivalent of a fast-food kid’s meal complete with cheap little plastic toys. Don’t get me wrong: I still want my writing to be fun, entertaining, a roller coaster of a read. To continue my food comparison, a Black Angus gourmet burger of a book, or a hot and complex Pad Thai.
How far will I go to preserve that right?
Many years ago, I was interviewing for a job at a small store whose product I loved and already knew quite a bit about. The retail work would not have been difficult, it would have given me opportunity to both teach and learn my craft, and the employee discount was decent. All was going well, as I showed the owners my portfolio and my industry show credits. It looked like a good match.
Right up to the point where, in conversation, I used a big word. I can’t even remember which word, only that it wasn’t unfamiliar and seemed a good choice in context. I certainly wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
One owner looked baffled. The other owner laughed and said something about ‘…using fancy ten-dollar college words.’
At that moment I knew I could not work for these people. Our fundamental worldview was probably too different, and every future attempt I made to bridge that gap would only annoy them and put my job in danger. So I politely ended the interview and told them later that I was looking at job sites closer to home. I could have been melodramatic and told them exactly why I didn’t want the job. But that wouldn’t be fair to them, in their territory, in the part of the world they had shaped for their convenience. That, and I doubted it would do any good.
Returning to the topic of literary elitism: there are many ways to read a book. I’m not stuffy enough to say that deep reading is the only way. It’s just my default reading strategy when I’m really interested in how another author can teach me or make me feel.
I try to make my commercial writing as accessible as possible, without losing the ‘voice’ that I developed over years of practice and play. (Don’t believe me? Moro’s Price is substantially less complicated and easier reading than some of my other stuff, since I knew it was destined for a specific commercial market.)
But I reserve the right to write what I like to read, and if that’s going to alienate certain readers, so be it. In all likelihood, like the store owners, we are too many worlds apart.