Defining Purpose
When Scott Brodeur, Editor-in-Chief of MassLive.com asked me what fiction I'd recently read, I was stumped as to what, or how, to answer.
For the most part, I hate modern fiction. Most of it is sefl-absorbed, trite and insincere. Like exploitation films of the 1970's, a large percentage of it trades on the purient and on shock value in stores of Southern-gothically troubled families, sexual abuse of young teens, and a variety of obscure mental conditions.
Modern fiction (and its close kin, modern memoir) is more of a chore than a pleasure. Reading it becomes an undertaking on the magnatude of Freudian analysis. It does not enlighten nor uplift. It is not an escape from the modern world because, like Narcissus, it is gazing at is own self-congratulating image and says "oh, yes! we are shocking in our revelations! and when the world gazes on us, it will know the profundity of our suffering!"
But it doesn't shock, and oftentimes the suffering of its characters only numbs the reader. Daily, we are shocked by what appears in the average newspaper--stories of Southern-gothically troubled families, sexual abuse of young teens, various forms of child abuse that would make the Marquis deSade blush, and the antics of mentally challenged celebreties.
What, then, is the point of all this grandiose literary strum und drang?
There is none.
And publishing houses wonder why they are in trouble.
Be that as it may, I have been thinking alot about what I spend my leisure time reading. More often than not, it is blogs. Well-written, insightful blogs that are a mixture of social commentary and personal experience, with a tad bit of political commentary. The authors are sincere, their language clear, their styles eloquent, and their opinions free of rank punditry. I dislike pundits (who I view as snarky bullies in the blogyard) as much as pundits dislike the "Dear Diary" type blogs so prevalent on Livejournal. (I would make an analogy to pundits, but it would lower the quality of this post.)
But those of us who are merely good writers, who are not looking to shock or to vent our spleens on a regular basis, aren't necessarily going to be A-Listers in the Blogosphere, nor are we going to find our way to big-time publishing. We are not trite, self-absorbed or massively precious. We are not constantly suffering from mental illnesses that need constant supervision and testimony--although we have our quirks.
Alot of us like life, and are amazed by what it offers and how it unfolds daily basis. We convey our loves, our disappointments, our desires, with an eloquence that can often rival the essays of notables such as Roger Rosenblatt and Anne Proulx.
We are the ones showing the world what it is to be real, to be human, to be a person in the early days of the 21st century.
I guess, too, that looking at the state of modern fiction and modern memoir, and my complete disappointment with it, has given me a more clear-cut purpose for this little blog. Finding individuals who keep blogs for the plesure of writing as much as for the desire to communicate and connect with others, and not just as efforts in punditry or armchair journalism, will be an ongoing quest for me.
I guess, to some degree, I'm looking to create a community of writers, of voices who might bring another perspective beyond what is put between two hard covers and rests, self-satisfied, on a Barnes & Noble shelf.
I my mind, we are the purveyors of eloquent social commentary, and the future of modern fiction, memoir, and even poetry. We carve our little niches here in cyberspace like graffitti artists spraypainting on naked brick walls, and for the same reason--because we have something to say about the world around us that is NOT what the Mainstream is saying, and we reserve the right to do so.
I blog, therefore, I am....and so are you.
Blogging
For the most part, I hate modern fiction. Most of it is sefl-absorbed, trite and insincere. Like exploitation films of the 1970's, a large percentage of it trades on the purient and on shock value in stores of Southern-gothically troubled families, sexual abuse of young teens, and a variety of obscure mental conditions.
Modern fiction (and its close kin, modern memoir) is more of a chore than a pleasure. Reading it becomes an undertaking on the magnatude of Freudian analysis. It does not enlighten nor uplift. It is not an escape from the modern world because, like Narcissus, it is gazing at is own self-congratulating image and says "oh, yes! we are shocking in our revelations! and when the world gazes on us, it will know the profundity of our suffering!"
But it doesn't shock, and oftentimes the suffering of its characters only numbs the reader. Daily, we are shocked by what appears in the average newspaper--stories of Southern-gothically troubled families, sexual abuse of young teens, various forms of child abuse that would make the Marquis deSade blush, and the antics of mentally challenged celebreties.
What, then, is the point of all this grandiose literary strum und drang?
There is none.
And publishing houses wonder why they are in trouble.
Be that as it may, I have been thinking alot about what I spend my leisure time reading. More often than not, it is blogs. Well-written, insightful blogs that are a mixture of social commentary and personal experience, with a tad bit of political commentary. The authors are sincere, their language clear, their styles eloquent, and their opinions free of rank punditry. I dislike pundits (who I view as snarky bullies in the blogyard) as much as pundits dislike the "Dear Diary" type blogs so prevalent on Livejournal. (I would make an analogy to pundits, but it would lower the quality of this post.)
But those of us who are merely good writers, who are not looking to shock or to vent our spleens on a regular basis, aren't necessarily going to be A-Listers in the Blogosphere, nor are we going to find our way to big-time publishing. We are not trite, self-absorbed or massively precious. We are not constantly suffering from mental illnesses that need constant supervision and testimony--although we have our quirks.
Alot of us like life, and are amazed by what it offers and how it unfolds daily basis. We convey our loves, our disappointments, our desires, with an eloquence that can often rival the essays of notables such as Roger Rosenblatt and Anne Proulx.
We are the ones showing the world what it is to be real, to be human, to be a person in the early days of the 21st century.
I guess, too, that looking at the state of modern fiction and modern memoir, and my complete disappointment with it, has given me a more clear-cut purpose for this little blog. Finding individuals who keep blogs for the plesure of writing as much as for the desire to communicate and connect with others, and not just as efforts in punditry or armchair journalism, will be an ongoing quest for me.
I guess, to some degree, I'm looking to create a community of writers, of voices who might bring another perspective beyond what is put between two hard covers and rests, self-satisfied, on a Barnes & Noble shelf.
I my mind, we are the purveyors of eloquent social commentary, and the future of modern fiction, memoir, and even poetry. We carve our little niches here in cyberspace like graffitti artists spraypainting on naked brick walls, and for the same reason--because we have something to say about the world around us that is NOT what the Mainstream is saying, and we reserve the right to do so.
I blog, therefore, I am....and so are you.
Blogging
posted by Tish Grier at 12:03 PM
5 Comments:
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Everything you say here is exactly what I fear about my own writing. I suppose if it is all those awful things, then maybe I'm commercially viable at least? :)
I like contemporary fiction but I'm drawn to older things. I think it's helpful to read the kind of literature you'll never be good enough to write. My favorite kind of stories are about people who don't matter much in society, who exist on the periphery.
As for memoirs, books like Kissed and Cherry were very disappointing. I really was amazed at how bad Generation S.L.U.T. was, which I bought as "research."
Blogs are an interesting medium. It's equalizing. There's some great writing going on. I find blogging to be comforting. It's very different from bringing your work to a fiction workshop, or submitting for publication. Blogs are both safe and dangerous. It's controlled self exposure.
I'm starting an MFA program in the fall and I'm not sure I'd want to bring in my blog writing. With blogs you say "this is who I am" and there aren't any real consequences. It removes fear. A blog doesn't mean "I think I can write well," it just means, "I write."
Congratulations on getting into the MFA program...I've conetemplated it, along with Religious studies and library science...but alot of life gets in the way.
I'm really not sure what constitutes commercial viability these days. I know some writers who are simply well-connected and tickle a certain fancy of one editor or another and are then magically made literary figures. So, it might be good to make good networking connections while you are in school.
I like reading things I'll never be able to write--hence, one of my favorite books is Memoirs of a Geisha...it made me say "wow!" at the end. It is a beautiful literary achievement, and if Arthur Golden never writes another book, he's made a serious contribution.
As for memoirs, the last one I liked was Angela's Ashes. The language sings. And while it depicts real tragedy, it never sinks to pathos (as so many others do).
What bugs me is reading books I know I could write if I was left, undisturbed, for several months. Like The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing. A complte waste of my time.
I actually have received better feedback on blogs than I have from writer's groups--then again, some advice from an editor friend said to keep trying groups until I get the right fit.
There comes a time, I think, in a person's life when she/he has been writing enough to know that what she/he is writing is actually good, even if there is self-doubt. And that, even with doubt, one can indeed be fearless and vulnerable in one's writing. It's like walking thru fire--or down the middle of Main St. naked. I know I'd have no problem reading the Lucky Bastard stories for others. I wouldn't be embarassed, but I'm not sure a group of people would be all that comfortable if I read them aloud. After all, middle-aged women aren't supposed to be *that* sexual or *that* dangerous.
I've been (metaphorically) naked so often both on the 'net and in public that I've developed asbestos skin. It's brushing up against other people's fears, hopes, prejudices, desires and jealousies that's scary.
John Steinbeck would have had a blog.
Grapes of Wrath was an incredible social and political commentary. In it, there are many one- and two-page essays. It is brilliance.
As a professional writer, I think reading Steinbeck is necessary. He shows me the diamond. As for me? I am a quartz. I will polish myself all I can.
A...I've got to agree that Steinbeck would have *loved* blogging.
and I'm still in the tumbler :-)
sxxyd....it's sad that so much of entertainment is redundant. From what I understand, alot of times people sit around and go "hey! 'X' was great! can we do a version of that??" and because entertainment is such a part of our lives, people will go to a movie or watch a TV show or buy a book when it first comes out.
But how many movies that have big box office the first weekend close after two weeks? How many people buy best sellers only to have them sit, unread, on the nightstand, or donated to the public library.
And when I don't skip to the end of the book, I know it's a good book. When I do it wihtin the first 15 mins. of reading, I know it's a stinker!
Post a Comment
<< Home