Atop the Soapbox: Thoughts on the Literati

"But reading was never dead with the kids. Au contraire, right now it's probably healthier than the adult version, which has to cope with what seems like at least 400 boring and pretentious 'literary novels' each year." --Stephen King in an Entertainment Weekly article about Harry Potter.

The Growler posted a link to the New York Times Notable Book List. And while the Growler feels tremulous excitement reviewing the NYT's who's who, I feel, well, a bit annoyed. Aside from the obvious kudos to the seventh installment of the Potter series (how could they ignore the fastest selling book of all time?), most of the books sound like absolute snoozefests. And perhaps it's me and my narrow window on the world, but I'm not enticed at all to pick up most of these titles. The exception might be Rebecca Barry's Later, at the Bar, but for the most part, the descriptions sound positively...pretentious.

And I know, I know - it's the New York Times book review. What did I expect? But, I guess I wonder: what happened to good stories? Why is the notable list chock full of maudlin tales of Libya in 1979 and another Martin Amis book that recounts the painful tragedies of World War II that sound dry and boring? These could be good stories. But at first glance, it sounds like the authors are trying too hard. Trying to be smart. Trying to break into the literati. Trying to be the kind of book that people get told they should read.

Should read...the only time I want to hear that I should read a book is if it's an amazing story that I should read. That it's so hilarious that I should read it. That it's so unforgettable and I will fall in love with the characters so I should read it. But if you just think it's going to make me smart...just going to be something that will sound good if I say I've read it...well, I'm not interested. Most of the descriptions give little impression of great characters or page-turning, can't-put-it-down, stay-up-late-to-read-it excitement. And isn't that what we all want? To go back to that place when you were ten and trying to read Encyclopedia Brown under the covers with a flashlight?

A certain professor I had in grad school referred to himself as an "immortality queen". He also referred to my writing as a donut: all sweet and delicious on the outside and hollow on the inside - but that's a story for another day. And his point was that writing wasn't worth doing unless you would be remembered for generations.

I guess I'm a little more here-and-now than that. I read to enjoy...to be taken away and to escape. I hope that if I ever write a book that it will be enjoyed by people while I'm still alive. Because, generations from now, I'll be mouldering in the ground somewhere. Maybe that's why I have such mad respect for Stephen King. The literati sort of shun him - he's like the establishment's bastard son - but he knows good story. He knows how to tell a story that engages the reader, that gives them characters that last forever in their minds. And that, my friends, is far greater than any notable designation by the book snobs at the NYT.

I suppose I balk at the idea that books are being written and delineated in this way, gathered up into a tight circle and pushed toward that immortality level. Like those of us reading right now don't even matter.

All of these thoughts, of course, come from a woman with an MFA who hasn't read a "notable" book in about 3 years and devours pulp romance novels. So maybe this really is all about my own insecurity. Still...who is breaking their neck to pick up this one? Knots, by Nuruddin Farah. (Riverhead, $25.95.) After 20 years, a Somali woman returns home to Mogadishu from Canada, intent on reclaiming a family house from a warlord.

Yeah. That's what I thought.