This week I decided, against my better judgement, to indulge in a little holiday reading. I say, “…against my better judgement…”, since I find reading always stops me doing better things. Anyway, I began this bloody great thick book. (You’ll notice, throughout this piece, that I give neither the title of the book nor the name of the author so as not to colour any judgements you might form on reading it yourselves but if you’ve read it already, you may well guess what I’m talking about).
The story (or plot, I’m never sure which) was interesting enough to hold my attention and has done so for what my Kindle assures me is 73% of its mass, which when considers that in the non-e world it runs to over 800 pages, is not bad going for me.
Oh, there are plot holes you could drive a bus through but I can live with those and some of the characterisations give new meaning to the word “clichéd” but again, that’s not something terminal in this instance. And I’m more than impressed with the extraordinary level of research that has gone into it. So I suppose, I am, for want of a better word, enjoying it.
My problem with it is that (and here’s where I expect a number of my readers will leave me forever) I believe that I write better than this.
Pause whilst the room clears.
So why is the author of this book feted and wealthy and I (not to put too fine a point on it), am not? The reason would appear to be obvious. What I think is “good” writing is not necessarily what publishers and the paying public think is “good” writing.
Although writing is, of course, far more than just wordsmithery; and whilst I wouldn’t exactly call myself a champion of what is often pleased to call itself “Literary Fiction” (finding much of it pretentious almost –rather appropriately - beyond words) I do like stories to be well-written – that is with combinations of words that are elegant, pleasing, surprising, nuanced and evocative. The writing in this well-received work is none of these things. In fact, it is cliché-ridden, turgid, repetitive, dull and uninspiring; oh, and it contains some of the most juvenile and squirmingly embarrassing sex-scenes that I’ve ever encountered as well as a couple of truly appalling typos; not to mention that schoolboy howler: “The Book of Revelations” all of which should have been expunged at the editing stage.
And yet, I’m keen to find out what happens. Am I just a snob who has seldom given books like this a chance? Probably. Am I going to change the way I write? Probably not. Am I ever going to be a success? Not a hope.
The story (or plot, I’m never sure which) was interesting enough to hold my attention and has done so for what my Kindle assures me is 73% of its mass, which when considers that in the non-e world it runs to over 800 pages, is not bad going for me.
Oh, there are plot holes you could drive a bus through but I can live with those and some of the characterisations give new meaning to the word “clichéd” but again, that’s not something terminal in this instance. And I’m more than impressed with the extraordinary level of research that has gone into it. So I suppose, I am, for want of a better word, enjoying it.
My problem with it is that (and here’s where I expect a number of my readers will leave me forever) I believe that I write better than this.
Pause whilst the room clears.
So why is the author of this book feted and wealthy and I (not to put too fine a point on it), am not? The reason would appear to be obvious. What I think is “good” writing is not necessarily what publishers and the paying public think is “good” writing.
Although writing is, of course, far more than just wordsmithery; and whilst I wouldn’t exactly call myself a champion of what is often pleased to call itself “Literary Fiction” (finding much of it pretentious almost –rather appropriately - beyond words) I do like stories to be well-written – that is with combinations of words that are elegant, pleasing, surprising, nuanced and evocative. The writing in this well-received work is none of these things. In fact, it is cliché-ridden, turgid, repetitive, dull and uninspiring; oh, and it contains some of the most juvenile and squirmingly embarrassing sex-scenes that I’ve ever encountered as well as a couple of truly appalling typos; not to mention that schoolboy howler: “The Book of Revelations” all of which should have been expunged at the editing stage.
And yet, I’m keen to find out what happens. Am I just a snob who has seldom given books like this a chance? Probably. Am I going to change the way I write? Probably not. Am I ever going to be a success? Not a hope.
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