Writing (and reading) in modern times, by Meredith Greene

To sell or not to sell? That, is the million-dollar question for writers. There exists within most novelists a book they’d love to write; a book that they hope–beyond all hope–that someday they’ll be famous enough to be able to write (but know secretly in their hearts that it would likely never make it past an editor’s desk.)

“It wouldn’t sell…” is a horrible utterance that often accompanies such attempts at passing one’s beloved manuscript on to folks that can get it in print. “Can’t you write something about vampires in traumatic throes of infatuation, or mortals battling paranormal forces in pre-ice age periods? That’s where the ‘money’ is these days…”

It is hard to call much of what is written-to-sell these days either noble or original, let alone “ground-breaking” or for that matter even “palatable.” As a professional book-reviewer I have given up selecting modern fiction titles from the monthly ‘list’ proffered by various reviewing publications, instead gravitating towards the numerous non-fiction pieces that offer learning about history, travel, gardening, knitting or cooking. Once in a great while I will make an exception, usually only when a fellow author emails me a portion of their book and I can tell—just from a few pages—that said author was not writing through their proverbial hat. In short, I’d rather learn about the benefits of alpaca verses merino, the odd history of Roman surnames or improve my skills at grilling organically-grown vegetables than to dive into a volume of modern, written-to-sell fiction.

This was particularly hard realization to come to, being that I am, myself, a writer of fiction. However, the books I’ve penned were not written to sell, other than producing a title or two in the ever-popular “romance fiction” category. Those two books were not my first novels, nor were they easy to write; having no pieces of said category in my personal library, there was little but fairy tales to base these fictional titles on. Despite this hurdle, I was determined to give my readers something akin to Jane Austen’s style of romance, namely a family-orientated piece that leaned more toward the side of Kingdom of Literature held by the just armies of Intelligence, rather than the side ruled haphazardly by the scattered forces of Passion. Coinciding with virtually all statistical data on the subject the books of mine in the Romance Fiction category are our best-sellers, a fact which still baffles me. I prefer my husband’s action-adventure novels to the “rom fics”… or our historically-accurate story about turn-of-the-century immigrants coming to America, a story based on our ancestors and the real experiences of actual immigrants.

What constitutes a romance… at least the type that seems to appeal the most to consumers, especially American consumers? If Pride & Prejudice is considered strictly literature–though it harbors quite a bit of ‘romantic’ aspects throughout its pages—then romance fiction must be categorized as riddled with romance from stem to stern. These books must cover very little of life’s daily activities, such as those bordering on the realm of Tedium like changing diapers, cleaning one’s house, carefully conversing with relatives by telephone, pulling hundreds of weeds or painting a laundry room, subsequently getting drips of semi-gloss on one’s tennis shoes. From what I’ve seen, these type of daily actions rarely make it into the pages of the modern romance novel, or at least are referred to in only a cursory fashion, lest the audience get “bored”. These seemingly mundane actions are ‘edged out’ by more exciting, improbable things like high-powered, fashionable business meetings laced with lustful looks (a thing which seems highly unprofessional to me and screams ‘sexual harassment suit”) or a sudden onslaught of werewolves, demonic beings, etc.–ones that appear thrown in, apparently to heighten the romance with a little gore, a bit o’ running and screaming, several odd and illogical decisions by the so-called heroine… and by now Ms. Austen is whirling in her grave by womens fiction being reduced to passion, play and danger.

Thrillers–to me–seem to fit into the same category as modern romance novels and are comprised of a similar formula: dark consequences to silly decisions by misunderstood characters. One of my favorite authors, P. G. Wodehouse, penned a brilliant and slightly snarky essay on Thrillers in his book Louder & Funnier. The essay in question essentially covers his impatience with villains who unrealistically complicate their various doings–to their own detriment–but more pointedly “picks on” the predominantly idiotic heroine, who—while pretty—almost always acts in a thoughtless fashion (and repeatedly so) in order to make the largely implausible plot possible. Sound familiar? Even several decades later Mr. Wodehouse is right on the money. Thus, along with romances, thrillers are off my list save for the rare courtroom drama or crime story where the authors have cleverly based their story on actual events.

What does this little rant of mine really boil down to? Well, as a reader I want to read books written by folks that know what they are talking about, writers that have done their research carefully and toss in a “realistic” scene… more than just once in awhile; books that teach the reader something useful in the process of storytelling, a grown-up Aesop’s fable, if you will, one that applies to humans living in the real world. On the other hand as a writer, I long for an audience that would accept an Austen-like book as avidly as they appear to do for the grocery-store romance novel. Books containing no pirates, aliens, female knights in plate armor swinging broadsword, or teenagers soaring hither and yon with supernatural powers fighting shape-shifting badgers… but instead offering stories valued for their heartfelt realism, for the relationships that are worked on by characters without the improbable help of danger and mystery, for the day-to-day activities that champion a long life of Time Well Spent, for their bits of humor and displays of responsible decisions and–more importantly–for the real love contained therein… love displayed by unselfish actions and the utterance of truth verses the facades of intrigue and deception (things which by definition are largely temporary).

Such are the type of novels that, if written, would entice me to peer inside the pages of modern fiction once more. And, if many of my fellow reviewers, readers and writers—and venerable writers past–are any type of indicator, then I am not alone in these particular opinions. Sometimes I wonder if cheap, unrealistic romance and thrillers sell so well only because of the general lack of newly emerging fiction of substance. Until invites to read “better” books begin filtering into my Inbox then, whenever I have a hankering to read fiction, I shall re-read the excellent classic offerings resting on the shelves of my bookcases… the writers of which, I may add, have nearly all left the planet decades or centuries ago.

In writing the above I fully realize how many emails I’ll receive from folks berating me for virtually ignoring a large section of modern literature—whether sci-fi proponents or cheap-romance-a-holics—but, frankly, such emails will not affect me in the slightest being that I am able to choose what I like to read and declare my reasons for such “pickyness” with complete impunity. I fervently hope that this piece encourages a few writers—young, middle-aged and seasoned—to write such prose as I have waved the literary flag for. Contrary to many sales statistics, there is a market for it and one much larger than can be described by the vague term of ‘niche’.

Via Meredith Greene’s Greeneink.