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Beginning with an excellent guest article from Dan Holloway at
ErgoFiction today, (do yourself a favour and check out Dan's sites) I began a reading trail on the question of Literature.
The trouble with that journey is, at some point you have to ask yourself, “How many times in my life am I going to have this same conversation?” I almost signed up to one forum to comment, and then I said – No. Why? What else is there to say?
Letitia has just written a whole series of articles that say, basically, art is Art is art. Good or bad, too bad. If you like it or not, all written work has a place and a role – live with it. It’s true.
But the opposite is also true. Standards can be defined. One hundred thousand words placed on a page one after another do not make a masterpiece. There is a spectrum, a greyscale.
Not all art is equal. I don’t think it has to be. I don’t think there is a rule about such things, but I do wonder why the line
must be drawn between Literature and pulp. Genre fiction, if you prefer.
The argument would not need to happen; no one would get the irrits if everyone took the time to affix the simple, ‘in my opinion,’ to their statements.
In my opinion, I have read in webfiction, writers who have an outstanding talent. Gobsmacking. I haven’t found them writing sweeping prose or illuminating manuscripts. I have tripped over most of them in ugly little pulpy tales, and I can only assume one of two things has happened.
Maybe they have to feed themselves and they are looking for a market and an audience. Sprawling semi-conscious across a Parisian table, dying of syphilis and bemoaning the suffering of the artist has lost its broadest appeal. Writing
A BOOK for fifteen years, while you starve or turn to prostitution probably gives a Literary soul a great deal of depth from which to write, but not much else. Some scabs and a burning sensation upon urination.
Or maybe they are writing what they know; what they are familiar with; what they like. Maybe they simply don’t KNOW how much talent they have or how best to use it. Maybe they haven’t had the opportunity to read great works of fiction, or to look deeper into the words and the poetry of the words, and the reason some works have an impact and others don’t. Maybe they don’t even LIKE Literature.
Talent is a glowing thing. It shows even under a bushel. It can’t be taught. Or measured. Or defined.
But out trot the rule tellers, to tell us the rules. Fifteen points on how to write. Ten basic rules every successful writer knows. Twelve red marks every editor makes. All based on some obscure formula, perhaps for sales, as if that defines what is Literature.
101 ways to tell everyone else how it should be done.
In my opinion, there are a number of webfiction authors whose literature is mistakenly clapped and lauded, whose rosy cheeks/gaunt visages are clucked over and blessed with knowing nods of appreciation. Some of them, in my opinion, are claptrap twaddle.
But I have the good grace to know that is only my opinion.
If it was possible, I would recommend every writer read a thousand books before they write a word; and write a million words before they begin to think about a craft or career. That’s my opinion, of course, and it is not viable, since, as with every creative impulse – writers will write. Maybe they’ll be good. Maybe not. Maybe what is good today, won’t be good tomorrow. Maybe those who get to choose, will themselves be chosen from a whole different demographic, tomorrow.
Luckily Letitia doesn’t get angry, at least not for long. She drifts into someone else and forgets she was annoyed. Otherwise her teeth would be on edge.
One thing I can say, in my opinion, is that those authors who stand out as Artists have a voice which is recognized as their own. You can hear an author speak from their first written word, and know them from their first written passage. And yet, and yet, AND YET, the learned stand in the wings prompting with the well known rules.
“Now we have decided what will be Art, conform. When the nonconformist hangs about long enough and still causes comment and elicits emotion, we can suck him into the net of Art, and set about teaching a new set of rules. Maybe once he’s dead so we don’t look so much like twats.”
On and on and on it goes. Mine good, yours bad. Me clever, you dumb. My place, not yours.
How can I be IN if there is no OUT? I must not say, “I will read and write what I like to read and write and time will tell what is true and what is passing,” because to do so means I cannot stand with those who know, and who knew, they were bigger, better, best all along.
Then, when all is done, when the battle lines have all been drawn and no one left has the energy to argue their points anymore; when fences are erected to ensure no one lesser crawls into the vaunted spaces. When an artist is recognized, raised on the shoulders of the great, dressed in gold, carved in cones and pomegranates, made a literary king! When his Literature has been defined, and taught in school, and accepted as truly great Art, some snotty kid (probably one with a pencil and pad, or a beaten up typewriter, or a laptop) will climb a tree, look over the fence and yell for the whole world to hear, “The Emperor STILL has no clothes!”
Or that's my opinion.
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