By Lisabet Sarai
Literary erotica is a niche genre. Even
the most renowned authors in this genre are virtually unknown outside
that small circle of aficionados for whom the manner of expression
matters as much as the mechanisms of coupling described. Secretly, we
erotica writers may dream of seducing millions of readers with our
tales, but most of us recognize the tiny likelihood that this will
ever occur.
However, it appears that the world's
indifference to my writing has turned me into something of a snob.
I care deeply about language. When I
read, an author's ability to fashion graceful and evocative prose is
as important to me as the plot or the characters. Perhaps as a
consequence of my own focus on literary craft, I'm frequently
disappointed by the quality of the writing in the books I read. As
I've become more aware of my own strengths and weaknesses as an
author, the foibles of others have become painfully obvious.
There's nothing wrong with being a
discriminating reader. However, I recently realized that I've come to
expect an inverse relationship between mass popularity and literary
quality. This elitist attitude is partially supported by examples
such as the Trilogy That Shall Not Be Named, but a bit of
soul-searching reveals that sour grapes plays a role too. I write
well (I believe) but my books remain obscure. Ergo, quality writing
must be the antithesis of popular success. According to this logic,
best sellers, especially best selling series, enjoy a huge market
because they're poorly written. They stick to stereotypes,
follow formulas, fulfill expectations, and employ simple language
that doesn't tax their readers too much. If I were willing to
compromise on quality for the sake of popularity (I tell myself
sometimes), I could send my books to the top of the New York Times
list.
Some recent reading, though, has
convinced me that this is a fallacy. Several months ago, my husband
and I bought a new load of used books at a library sale. When DH
showed me his selections, I'm sure my eyebrows shot up. His stack
included several titles by Janet Evanovich, creator of best selling
Stephanie Plum mystery series: One for the Money, Two for
the Dough, Three to Get Deadly... you
get the idea, right? At this point, she's up to number twenty. We
bought number five (High Five)
and number eighteen (Explosive Eighteen).
DH dove right into both novels, and obviously found them
entertaining, but I was skeptical. How could anyone so popular be any
good?
I
resisted for quite a while, but one evening when I was too tired to
tackle any of the more “serious” titles I'd been working on, I
picked up High Five.
In ten minutes I was laughing out loud. In twenty I was apologizing
to my husband for impugning his taste. High Five
might not be the great American novel, but it is a near-masterpiece
of craft.
Ms.
Evanovich's characters are quirky (to the point of being bizarre) and
yet totally believable. They inhabit the ethnically mixed
neighborhoods of Trenton, New Jersey, a place I've never visited but
which felt concrete and plausible despite the outrageous events that
take place there. Stephanie – twenty-something native of Trenton, a
perennially broke lingerie salesgirl turned bail bounty hunter –
jumps off the pages. Her wry, self-deprecating first person narrative
draws you into her world of unpaid bills and doughnut dinners, car
bombs and church bingo, smothering family and sexy guys with hidden
agendas.
What I
admired most about the book, though, was the dialogue. I'd consider
selling my soul to be able to create such vivid, lively, hilarious
conversations. Ms. Evanovich has an expert grasp of dialect as well
as an enviable capability for giving each speaker a totally
distinctive voice. More than once I had to stop and share some
snippet with my husband, full of admiration – even though he'd
already read the book, had in fact been the one who chose it over my
reservations. He very generously refrained from gloating.
By the
time I'd finished, I had to admit it: popular, mass-market fiction
though it might be, High Five
showed signs of true artistry, albeit employed for the sole purpose
of entertainment. My elitist beliefs had been crushed. I can't
dismiss best selling authors purely because of their success. They
may write as well, or better, than I do. Genre and market do not
pre-determine quality. And I can't use a focus on craft as an excuse for
my own poor sales, either.
It's a
bit of a hard lesson, but hopefully one I won't forget. After all,
there are a lot of books out there that I might not have considered
reading previously – but that I now understand might be worth a try.
