Reading, 'Riting, and Ramblings

This particular book was what publishers call "upmarket fiction," on the borderline between literary and commercial. I read it because it's somewhat popular and was supposed to be uproariously funny. But it wasn't funny. It was mildly amusing sometimes, but for the most part it was depressing. Basic synopsis: horrible people are horrible to each other until they realize how horrible they are, repent, and change their ways.

The novel was written in the epistolary style, as a collection of emails, letters, diary entries, interview transcripts, etc. from many different people. Leaving my opinion of this book's content aside, I'd like to go through some pros and cons of the narrative approach.

Pro: Multiple Layers of Meaning

Most epistolary novels are told, for the most part, in first person. This means that in addition to what people say, you can add layers of meaning through how they say it. You can reveal character through grammar, word choice, punctuation, and even font styling. You can put implications between the lines and inject social commentary through caricature. For example, in this novel there were several mass emails from private school administrators filled with meaningless ultra-PC nonsense and personal letters between women steeped in passive aggressive hyper-friendliness.

Con: Too Many Layers of Meaning

What people think and what people communicate are two very different things. We don't have personalities so much as construct them for the benefit of others. We think, we feel, and then we choose how to express those thoughts and feelings to produce the effect we want.

Sometimes we do it deliberately, filtering our words and behavior to fit the mold of "a good person," "a grown-up," "a cute girl," "a cool guy," etc. Most of the time we do it unconsciously. Whenever I interact with people I don't know well, I revert to the personality I learned as a child: meek, sweet, quiet, obedient. Internally, I am none of those adjectives. But even when I make an effort to be more assertive, my voice and behavior modulate themselves involuntarily.

So the way people write emails, letters, diary entries, etc. is largely artificial. What you see in a piece of writing isn't the writer's raw thoughts, but a selective slice of those thoughts shaped to fit a personality they've learned to project. The problem is, when people read things in the first person, they presume they are actually in the writer's (or fictional writer's) head. They have to make an effort to read between the lines and see that what the characters think and what they say don't necessarily match up.

In this book, there were several sudden 180° spins in personality. The horrible titular character, who had been complaining nonstop about her city's poor people, rich people, and all people in between, suddenly wrote a sweet letter to her daughter saying she was ashamed of her behavior and their city is a wonderful place to live. Her horrible husband, who regularly ripped into her in front of rooms full of people—including the secretary he was sleeping with—suddenly snivels that he just wanted to help her. And her horrible neighbor, who had been writing nothing but nasty emails full of deceit and pettiness, suddenly wrote a confession to her estranged spouse about how sorry she was that she had hurt people more than she'd realized.

Most of these spiritual conversions struck me as hollow. All we ever saw of these characters was the bitter, angry, snotty way they expressed themselves in the first half of the book. In order to accept their reformations, you have to believe that they weren't actually bitter, angry, snotty people, but that they were only communicating the bitter, angry, snotty parts of themselves.

But I, like most readers, assumed that what they wrote is what they really thought. When a character behaves horribly, but you never see their thoughts, you can explain their motives later for sympathy. But when a character seems to think horribly, as evidenced in their private diaries and letters, it's much harder to convince readers that they really had a heart of gold all along.

Pro: Unique Ways to Reveal Events

The funniest parts of this book were in the revelation of comedic events after the fact. I returned the book to the library already, so I don't have excerpts in front of me to quote, but an email exchange between Posh Prep School mothers might look something like:

Email from Amy to Sarah
Brittany's tree roots are destroying my yard! It's going to cost me an arm an a leg to have them taken out!

Email from Sarah to Amy
You should make HER pay for it.

Email from Amy to Sarah
I certainly will! I'm going to confront her at pick-up tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Mass Email from Posh Prep School Principal to Parents
Many of you have no doubt heard of the tragedy that occurred during pick-up yesterday....

In epistolary novels, events don't have to flow into each other or even reveal themselves linearly. You can create gaps and hops akin to scene cuts in visual media, in which a character says, "Come on, what could go wrong?" And CUT, the bars are closing on her jail cell.

It's much harder to pull this off in a traditional third-person novel because scene and chapter breaks are sporadic and jarring. You can't hippity hop through time as smoothly. But in epistolary novels, you can time-hop, scene-hop, and head-hop with impunity.

Con: Limited Ways to Reveal Details

At some point in an epistolary novel—or likely at many points—you will want to narrate a scene linearly. You'll want to incorporate dialogue and action. The problem is, people don't write emails, diary entries, etc. like they're fiction. At many points in this novel, the epistolary style devolved from a tool to a conceit.

Email from Sarah to Amy

You won't believe this, but Brittany's husband invited me to lunch today! We went to the Lenny's across the street from the office. At his request, we sat at a quiet booth in the back. After we had taken our orders, he leaned towards me confidentially and said, "I asked you here today to talk about my wife. Has she been acting a bit odd lately?"

I almost laughed out loud. Calling Brittany "a bit odd" is like calling Antarctica "a bit chilly." But I have to work with the man, so I took a sip of water with lemon and chose my words carefully. "Brittany doesn't socialize much with the other parents at Posh School Prep," I said finally....

Who writes emails like this? Nobody. Though the epistolary style gives you a lot of flexibility between passages, you don't have much within them. If you want detailed action and dialogue, you either have to incorporate a narrator or say "screw consistency!" and make characters text ten-page short stories to their friends. This book took the latter approach, and it annoyed the heck out of me.

Existential vs. Active

People typically describe places in conversation like this: "We went to the park on Friday, and it was beautiful! There weren't too many people, but there were a lot of ducks in the pond. There was a good-sized playground for the kids. And there's a nice restaurant nearby, too."

There is, there are, there was, there were. Grammarians call these existential clauses. Readers call them boring. Here's how a new writer might describe the front of a house.

The house looked like it was built in Victorian times, but it had been well cared for. It was beige with green gables and was surrounded by a white picket fence. Rose bushes were planted along the wall. A marble fountain was in the middle of the yard and a swinging bench was under the trees to one side.

It sounds sweet and lovely, but this passage could be describing a photograph. There's no action or sense of movement—just a list of "things" that exist in close proximity to each other. But even inanimate "things" can be active.

Beyond the white picket fence stood a beige and green Victorian, grand and sturdy despite its age. Well-pruned rose bushes sent a delicate perfume through the warm summer air. A marble fountain gurgled in the yard, and a wooden bench swung gently under the rustling trees to the side.

Same setting, same features—but while the first passage sits idly on the page, the second one pops out of it. You don't want photographs, you want movies.

Static vs. Interactive

One of the tricks I used in the rewrite above was to incorporate multiple senses. In addition to sight (colors, positions), we have smell (the scent of the roses), touch (the warm air), and sound (the gurgling fountain and rustling trees). Multiple senses kick the description up from "movie" to "virtual reality."

Settings aren't painted backdrops for the characters to stand in front of and carry out the story. You want them to interact with it. New writers tend to make characters see and stare at things.

I went through the gate and followed the cobblestone walkway to the entrance. As I passed the rose bed, I admired the pretty pink and yellow blooms.

Then I noticed a small gray cat on the porch. It sat at the top of the steps, swishing its tail and gazing at me with saucy yellow eyes. The collar around its neck was studded with a dozen glittering stones. I stopped and stared. Were those diamonds?

The action is very hands-off, like the protagonist is an outside observer instead of a key player. Why stand back and look at things when you can interact with them?

The gate squeaked closed with a gentle clang behind me. My heels clacked over the cobblestone walkway to the entrance. As I passed the rose bed, I couldn't resist the urge to sniff the pretty pink and yellow blooms.

Suddenly something furry brushed against my leg. I jumped and looked down. A small gray cat sat by my feet, swishing its tail and gazing up at me with saucy yellow eyes. I bent down to pet its head, and my fingers brushed a row of hard, glittering stones on its collar. I leaned in closer to examine them. Were those diamonds?

Long descriptive passages that paint static backdrops can stop the narrative flow dead. They're like those annoying parts in Disney attractions, e.g., the Haunted Mansion, where the ride stops moving and you're supposed to sit still and look at the scene. Readers get to them, see a block of adjectives and "things," and are tempted to skip ahead to when the ride starts moving again. But if you integrate scenery into the story and vice versa, you not only preserve the flow but make a deeper impression. A cat you see sitting on the porch is a decoration. A cat you meet and play with becomes a character.

Visually Interesting vs. Verbally Interesting

There are many breathtaking scenes in this world that fall flat on the page. Try describing the Grand Canyon to someone who's never seen it. It's a big hole in the ground, surrounded by a lot of rocks. Redwood National Park is a bunch of trees, and the Pacific Ocean is full of water.

Scenes that are astonishing visually may be boring verbally. Impressionistic language (beautiful, majestic, wonderful) and emotional philosophizing (e.g., seeing the Grand Canyon stretch into the horizon reminds you of humanity's fleeting insignificance) will only get you so far. Here's a description of a living room that would look lovely in real life.

Katherine invited me inside. She sat me down on a couch and hurried to the kitchen for tea. The living room was light and airy. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, and the furniture was upholstered in subdued floral patterns. A vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on the coffee table.

My hostess returned with a smile and silver tray of tea things.

There's nothing wrong with it, but there's nothing interesting about it either. The room sounds perfectly pretty and perfectly ordinary. But you can make it pop by adding unique elements.

Katherine invited me inside. She sat me down on a floral-patterned couch and hurried to the kitchen for tea. The living room was light and airy. Framed cross-stitches of squirrels and songbirds hung on the cheerful buttercup walls. A hand-carved cuckoo clock ticked away over the fireplace, and a time-worn rocking horse sat in a patch of sun under the window.

My hostess returned with a smile and a silver tray of tea things. She set it on the antique coffee table, next to a vase of fresh-cut daisies.

The room was plain before, but with the addition of imagination-stirring details like the cross-stitches, cuckoo clock, and rocking horse, it gets a much-needed dose of personality. The second room wouldn't look much different from the first in real life—both would leave good impressions—but in text the second stands out more and gives some insight into Katherine's character.

Generic vs. Specific

Why settle for "yellow" when you can say "buttercup," and why say "flowers" when you can clarify the visual with a simple switch to "daisies"?

You don't have to write many words about a setting to say a lot about it. You just need to choose specific ones. The right details will add layers of flavor, history, significance, and emotional resonance.

Katherine's kitchen looked like it hadn't been renovated in decades. It was small and cozy, with a linoleum floor and white cabinets. All of the appliances were pink. Music crackled from a radio on the counter.

Now transform it from "blah" to "bam!" with specific details.

Katherine's kitchen looked like it hadn't been renovated since 1955. It was small and cozy, with a checkered linoleum floor and white walnut cabinets. The ancient Kenmore oven and petite refrigerator were a strawberry-ice-cream pink. Soft jazz crackled from a transistor radio on the shiny Formica counter.

The smallest details can transform an entire scene. The kitchen could be from 1985, the appliances hot pink, and Katherine could be rocking out to retro pop, and it would evoke a very different image of her character. You can even kick it up a notch and have her listen to a particular song or music group—though you have to be careful that your target audience would recognize the reference.

I've seen writers, agents, and critics bend over backwards to try to figure out why the Fifty Shades of Grey books are so popular. There must be some reason, they insist, that millions of people love it so much. Yes, the characters are infuriating. Yes, the quality of writing is about what you'd expect from a hormone-charged high school freshman. But there must be some magical formula to mega-success that we just aren't seeing! E. L. James must have done something right!

Well yes, she did do something right. She tapped into an audience of people who had apparently never seen erotica before. She rode the wave of the shiny and new self-publishing movement. And most importantly, she got lucky. That's the wisest thing anyone can do in life: get lucky.

In my lowest moments, I dwell on why people would throw away their hard-earned money on forty-dollar boxed sets of stilted prose with less substance than the free amateur porn on literotica.com.

If they want porn, there's so much out there to choose from! I accidentally read two works of erotica this week alone. One was packaged as a "comedy" and the other as a "mystery," but they contained much more sexual activity than necessary for either humor or crime-fighting. The stuff is everywhere. But at least those books weren't anything like:

Suddenly he grabs me, tipping me across his lap. With one smooth movement, he angles his body so my torso is resting on the bed beside him. He throws his right leg over both mine and plants his left forearm on the small of my back, holding me down so I cannot move....He places his hand on my naked behind, softly fondling me, stroking around and around with his flat palm. And then his hand is no longer there...and he hits me—hard.

An interesting passage for a martial arts manual, perhaps, or a memoir by a victim of abuse, but erotica? Then there's the lyrical dialogue.

"Why don't you like to be touched?" I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes.
"Because I'm fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia."

Beautiful. That Christian's a real Romeo.

Anywho, that's enough flogging (ahem) of Fifty Shades for now. On to the point: the other day I realized something. People don't have bad taste in books. They have no taste in books...because they don't read them.

The stats I've found aren't reliable enough to quote, but it's safe to say that many literate American adults, perhaps a third or more, never read a book after high school. They read the news, they read documents for work, they read emails and restaurant menus and road signage. But they don't read books, and especially not novels. Most of the rest only read the once-in-a-decade blockbusters—the Harry Potters, the Hunger Games, and yes, the Fifty Shades. It's only a small subset of the remaining subset that reads more than one book per year.

Reading takes time, money, and effort. It's an effort that often ends in frustration and disappointment. I've spent hours wading through countless webpages of drivel to find books to read. Then when I find one that piques my interest, it goes nowhere, or it loses steam halfway through, or it turns out to be porn. (Not that I have anything against porn—I've even written it—but if I want porn, I know where to find it. I don't like porn in my comedies and mysteries any more than I like chocolate syrup in my macaroni and cheese.) Both my hobbies and my job revolve around books, and at times I hate them. So I sympathize.

But if people never read, they never develop a sense of taste. We're not born with an innate ability to judge good writing from bad; we develop it over years of exposure to all kinds. And here's where I segue into sushi.

You'd think that, growing up in southern California, I would have eaten a lot of sushi. You'd be wrong. I'd never tried sushi until I flew off to college in Bloomington, Indiana. In the food court of the Student Union stood a Grab 'n Go shelf of "healthy options"—chef salads made of iceberg lettuce with stale croutons and salty ham, parfaits of soggy granola on sugary yogurt, and sushi rolls. Sushi rolls made of some squishy white stuff that passed for rice, wrapped in slimy seaweed, and filled with goop that looked suspiciously like Red #40-colored mayonnaise. The slices were artfully arranged on black Styrofoam and suffocated by cling wrap.

On my first trip to the food court with my roommate, she was ecstatic to see the sushi. "Sushi is awesome! You have to try it!" she said. I wrinkled my nose. "No, thanks." I mean, it was raw fish. Ick. But after a few years of seeing it on the shelf, taunting me for my cowardice, I caved and gave it a taste. And I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't revolting. I thought it was quite good, even. At least it made a nice break from my usual tuna-with-celery-bits on a dripping wet kaiser roll.

Then after my first year of work, I blew my grandmother's graduation gift on a trip to Japan with Sweetie. My first taste of Japanese sushi was from a 7-Eleven. And compared to the stuff back home, it was pretty darned good. Then near the end of the trip, I ate my first real sushi at a restaurant in Osaka. It tasted nothing like the stuff in the Student Union. I thought, "Darn it, I should have eaten more of this while we were here!"

Then we went back to Indiana, and I started grad school. One day between work and classes I stopped by the old haunt and grabbed some yellowfin tuna sushi on the familiar black Styorofoam. I paid for it and found a seat.

I took a single bite and gagged.

It's possible that I happened to get a bad batch that day. But I doubt it. The "sushi" was probably the same as it always had been. I was the one who had changed. I now knew what sushi should taste like. And that slimy goopy squishy abomination was not sushi. I tasted the sugar and the mayonnaise. The sugar and the mayonnaise. For months afterward, just looking at the stuff made me queasy.

To people who have never eaten good sushi, factory-made rolls from a school cafeteria in southern Indiana taste okay. And to people who have never read good books, Fifty Shades of Grey is fine literature. For all they know, that's how all books are written.

Before I started rattling off my theories here, I took a look the reviewers of the first Fifty Shades book. Not the reviews, the reviewers. There are more than twenty thousand of them so, you know, I didn't investigate them all, but I looked into enough that I can say this with confidence: whether they're one of the 10,000 five-starers, the 6,000 one-starers, or the 7,000 people in-between, the majority of them have never reviewed any other book in their lives. If they've ever left other reviews on Amazon—which nine out of ten I saw hadn't—they're for things like picture frames and thermoses, not for books. One memorable five-starer had reviewed a 150-count box of Ziplock bags, a toy mouse stuffed with catnip, and a bracelet with the review title "very sparkly." Her review title for FSoG: "very amazing."

This doesn't mean that these people never read other books, but it's a safe bet that most don't make a regular habit of it. They only bought this one because their friends insisted it was the best book ever, their coworkers kept asking if they'd read it yet, and they heard that the cute sheriff from Once Upon a Time is going to play Christian in the movie.

This is the power of hype. It's not the appeal of the characters, or the sexiness of the story, or any other intrinsic properties of the books. People who insist the must be due to the content or style, or who chase the gravy train writing Fifty Shades knock-offs, want to believe that writing is a meritocracy. They want to think that doing your homework, following the right formula, and creating the right product will land you millions of adoring fans. It won't. Most people can't tell the difference between a good book and a bad one, any more than I can tell the difference between a good whiskey and a cheap off-brand from CVS. I've never drunk whiskey in my life, so how would I know?

So it's useless to try to appeal to "most people" by copying E. L. James. If you run a sushi restaurant, you don't make sushi with sugar and mayonnaise to suit the palates of people who don't eat sushi. If you make whiskey, you don't adjust the recipe to taste like Dr. Pepper to please people like me, who never drink whiskey.

And when you write, you don't write for the people who loved Fifty Shades of Grey because it's the only book they've touched since college. You write for your audience, for people who read your genre. If you're one of the flukes who finds mega-success, lucky you. But if you're not, don't worry about it. It has nothing to do with your skills.