On Reading "Junk"
Recently roaming a nearby field with my little lab mix Abby, we were joined by one of our regular field-walking companions — we'll call her Sue— with her Wheaton terrier.
"What are you reading in book club these days?" Sue asked.
I happily recommended the two W. Somerset Maugham books, The Razor's Edge and The Painted Veil, which I had enjoyed immensely from both the perspective of a reader, and a writer. "What are you reading these days?" I returned.
"Oh, I've been reading junk," replied Sue. "Mysteries."
"Who's the author?" I asked.
"Lawrence Block is his name."
"LAWRENCE BLOCK!" I exclaimed, recognizing a name sacred since the early days of my career when I started looking forward to his column in Writer's Digest. "What a great writer. Not the books with that funny burglar..."
"Bernie Rhodenbarr?"
"I love those," I gushed, "and I'm not even a mystery reader. They're hysterical." I paused, figuring how to say what I needed to say in defense of my profession. "In the writing world, I think those books would be called commercial fiction...not junk!" I added the last lightly, with a chuckle, to make clear I bore her no ill will.
Yet I am weary of this perceived superiority of supposed "real fiction" over "junk." And because I've also been guilty of giving minimal detail in certain circles about my commercial fiction selections, I asked myself: Was there any valid reason for me to feel inferior about reading commercial fiction?
I concluded that literary fiction needs to make you think; commercial fiction needs to make you feel. The meaning of life as opposed to what it's like living it. Offer both done well in one story, and you may have mega-successes like Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner. At times, I may embrace a literary novel that challenges me throughout to think hard about, say, the destructive power of multi-generational guilt. But at other times, I might want a commercial novel that simply makes me laugh out loud at how differently a man and woman can perceive the same events, and still manage to fall in love. I'm learning about life from both.
So enough of putting only fiction that caters to the intellect on a high solitary pedestal. Get that other pedestal up there. Intellect is great, but a heartless life is no life at all.
"What are you reading in book club these days?" Sue asked.
I happily recommended the two W. Somerset Maugham books, The Razor's Edge and The Painted Veil, which I had enjoyed immensely from both the perspective of a reader, and a writer. "What are you reading these days?" I returned.
"Oh, I've been reading junk," replied Sue. "Mysteries."
"Who's the author?" I asked.
"Lawrence Block is his name."
"LAWRENCE BLOCK!" I exclaimed, recognizing a name sacred since the early days of my career when I started looking forward to his column in Writer's Digest. "What a great writer. Not the books with that funny burglar..."
"Bernie Rhodenbarr?"
"I love those," I gushed, "and I'm not even a mystery reader. They're hysterical." I paused, figuring how to say what I needed to say in defense of my profession. "In the writing world, I think those books would be called commercial fiction...not junk!" I added the last lightly, with a chuckle, to make clear I bore her no ill will.
Yet I am weary of this perceived superiority of supposed "real fiction" over "junk." And because I've also been guilty of giving minimal detail in certain circles about my commercial fiction selections, I asked myself: Was there any valid reason for me to feel inferior about reading commercial fiction?
I concluded that literary fiction needs to make you think; commercial fiction needs to make you feel. The meaning of life as opposed to what it's like living it. Offer both done well in one story, and you may have mega-successes like Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner. At times, I may embrace a literary novel that challenges me throughout to think hard about, say, the destructive power of multi-generational guilt. But at other times, I might want a commercial novel that simply makes me laugh out loud at how differently a man and woman can perceive the same events, and still manage to fall in love. I'm learning about life from both.
So enough of putting only fiction that caters to the intellect on a high solitary pedestal. Get that other pedestal up there. Intellect is great, but a heartless life is no life at all.
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