In my book there are two kinds of
writers: the kind that produces record-breakers in publishing history, and the
kind that tinkers away in quietude, far away from the limelight, the award
shows, and public adulation.
Generalisations are unavoidable in the
categorising of writers. The first kind is rarely preoccupied with aesthetic
matters or ideological revolutions, preferring to do it “straight” to widen
public appeal. His aim is to entertain (a filthy, filthy word in Literature)
and to thrill the reader, to provide – here comes another scatological term –
escapism(!) from the awful ordinariness of everyday life. The second kind is
rarely aware of the reader’s needs and wants. He is more interested in his own
thought process, the “sound” of the authorial voice, and the mechanics of
writing. The reader is an afterthought to him.
Every aspiring writer must at one
point arrive at this crossroads and wonder which way to turn. Either direction poses a series of obstacles,
and making a choice, as with everything else in life, is not as straightforward
as it appears.
The first kind, the celeb-writer,
has business savvy and knows what his readers want. He produces – often at breakneck
speed – staples of books that sell like iPhones, easily digestible tomes that
pose few challenges (and thus do not give rise to heartburn), spin out
thrilling, “hip” plotlines, serve up cardboard characters (so as not to
complicate things unnecessarily), and give his readers the instant satisfaction
that they, after having devoured the entire series, belong to a universal cult
that identifies Quidditch as a sport. The celeb-writer is the darling of
publishers; like insipid Hollywood summer blockbusters, he is the one who
generates the $$$ to sustain a whole catacomb of editors, proof-readers, and clerks.
To be fair, he is also the one who makes it possible for publishers to sign on
less commercially inclined writers (the second kind). He therefore belongs to
the royalties of the publishing world; every sentence he churns out is worth
somebody’s weekly wage in Pakistan. He also has a fiercely loyal fanbase –
usually comprising middle-of-the-road types that see reading as a pastime.
What this celeb writer does not
have, however, is critical reception.
In serious literary circles, his
name is, for the sake of good taste, painstakingly avoided, as though the mere
mention of him could lead to the fall of civilisation. But you do not have to
get yourself into a literary circle to have good taste. Put the name Salman
Rushdie next to Dan Brown, or Margaret Atwood next to Stephanie Meyer, stare at
the equation for a few seconds, and ask yourself which way the weigh should
tip. Why is it the name Haruki Murakami weighs a great deal more than, say,
John Grisham? The answer seems self-evident and yet difficult to pin down. Some
may say it is cultural snobbery (the PC crowd’s usual line of attack), but I
say it has to do with literary sensitivities, love of diction and imagery, and
philosophical Gordian knots. It is probably the fact that when you emerge from
a Murakami you are left with more questions than answers, or once you have read
a few pages of Paul Auster, you feel intellectually rattled. The answer seems
to point in the direction of mental labour.
The second kind of writer, let us
call him the artist-writer, does not believe in smoothness and transparency. He
wants to rock your boat of complacency, to cure you of your somnambulant
tendencies, to re-educate you by opening your eyes to new vistas. The irony
here is, despite (or perhaps owing to) the labour he undergoes, he does not
appeal to readers of fluff (who make up the majority of book-buyers), or secure
film deals worth millions – unless his surname is Ishiguro or McEwan.
Where does the novice writer go
from here? He must first ask himself the question that goes straight to the
ethical heart: Do I want to seek fame and fortune, or do I want to take the
high road and write art for art’s sake? In a perfect world, he could have it
all (and some writers – and these are few and far between – do have it all);
but in this world, choice is
necessary.
Hmmmmmm. You've got me thinking. This was a fantastic post, and I really enjoyed it! (nor that you wrote it to "entertain", of course >_< ). I understand that there is no perfectly balanced both-worlds for writers, but is it possible to have a bit of the other, no matter which side of the scale you are on? Maybe I'm naive, since I have yet to experience being a novice writer, but does picking one path entirely drive away thoughts of the other? Or does it mean that if you are leaning on the art-for-art's-sake side and dabbing in the other pond, that you are not 100% committed to your art?
ReplyDeleteIt is definitely true that you cannot compare a Lucy M. Montgomery (haven't read Atwood to think of her writing yet -hides-) to a Stephanie Meyer. I really loved this post because it brings to light the writer's side, after always being accustomed to "did I enjoy this book?", "what's my personal opinion on it?", etc etc.
Vivian @ Vivaciously, Vivian
Welcome back, Vivian!
DeleteI suppose things are rarely as black and white as I have painted them here. An artist-writer could of course have a commercial appeal: Murakami, Auster, Franzen, Palahniuk, to name but a few. But these are authors who have hit the jackpot, so to speak, and can straddle both sides of the fence. For novice writers, the ones who are unpublished (like me!), things are a lot starker. I basically wrote this entry in response to an ex-student who’s also attempting to write, and the question of writing for a particular audience popped up. In other words, for beginning authors like me, we have to wonder for whom we are writing. But not for too long, though, as you have probably figured out, I lean towards the artist-writer, and rarely think of my audience when I write (my fiction). I essentially write to please myself. It’s a completely self-centred thing!