The discussions that have gone on last week on various blogs but especially at Oh Get A Grip are important. These are erotic fiction writers attempting to grapple with the definitions of the genre, of where they situate themselves in the public sphere, of how erotic literature is perceived by the public, the critics and the academy.
Many, many erotica writers – successful ones – don’t mourn that their work will never be considered literary. They puzzle why there is minority of us who rage and kick and beat our heels against the floor about it. They are angry at us for what they see as a kind of ‘class war’. Why should we – and the public, the critics and the academy – place a higher value on literary fiction than on genre fiction.
Post-modernism has attempted to level the field. To confiscate the authority of canon and critic and expert and proclaim the democratic will of the common man as arbiter of accomplishment, success, value. And so, we are left with almost unreadable academic texts on the mythological aspects of WWWF and the sublime transcendence of authenticity in an amateur porn clip containing Paris Hilton.
And, ironically, this movement has also suited many from a financial perspective. It is much cheaper to buy your news footage from people with iPhones than to send out a crew of reporters to cover an uprising. It’s much easier to hack into a celebrities phone and sell papers on the back of their extramarital affairs than to cover a political issue in depth. It’s much more financially profitable to have half your web content written by unpaid bloggers with opinions than pay a full compliment of journalists or commentators on staff.
Please, don’t get me wrong. I am not uncritical of the cultural authority structures of the past. They were inward, elitist, privileged and often stunningly blind about the world. A lot of important truths went unacknowledged. A lot of wonderful stories went untold or unrecognized.
But now we are in a world where expertise has no value. Where craft serves no purpose. Where careful, considered thought is seen as weakness. Where anyone’s uninformed and utterly irrational opinion is represented as a balanced argument. Where tantrum throwing creationists are paired up against evolutionary theorists and it’s called an informed discussion.
This strange sort of hybrid stance of jaded consumerism pervades our cultural landscape. There are no Grove Presses anymore to intentionally and actively court lawsuits by publishing deeply controversial material. And there are very few Nins or Millers or Ballards who simply don’t give a shit if they get outed as writers of ‘filth’.
In truth, we don’t need censorship. Its function has, for the most part, been supplanted by an extreme fear of professional and social ostracization and terror of being ruined economically through litigation at the hands of someone with an agenda.
As an erotic fiction writer, I will never get reviewed by the New York Times Book Review: not because my work has too much sex in it, not because the things I explore in my texts aren’t important and not because my work doesn’t grapple with fundamental human experience. There was a time when I would never be reviewed because of the explicit sex. Now I’m never going to get reviewed because a) my work comes under a label – erotica – that is intellectually beneath them to acknowledge, and/or b) I’m not making anyone sufficient money for them to overcome their intellectual qualms.
And hey, why should I care?
Well, I do care. Because I have a painful sort of pride. I have ambition, not to sell a lot of books, but to be a writer like the writers I have worshiped. Wordsmiths who could hold a poignant human truth in the palm of their hand, curl their fingers around it and transform it into something immortal in language. I want to be like the writers I have read – magicians of the mind who could force me see so much father than I could ever on my own. Who could show me the intricacies of things I thought simple. Who could shame me for my prejudices and compel me to understand both sides of a story and give each an abiding humanity. Writers. They were the ones who taught me that some questions have no answers, some problems no solutions, and the best that any human can do is to learn how to carry that unresolvedness inside, as a badge of being human.
How will I know when I have reached that place? When will I know I am a writer like those writers? Certainly not through book sales. Certainly not with a fat advance from a publisher.
Perhaps I must rely on you to tell me. Because I’m not going to get reviewed by the NY Times.
One of my major characters is an escort/courtesan who sees herself as a modern descendant of the temple prostitutes of the Biblical era. She believes her Divine mission is to provide support (therapeutic et al) for men who won’t go to therapists but have no issue seeking solace in paid sex.
I bring this up because there is an opportunity in genre fiction to similarly serve those who won’t go to the New York Times. The Upper East Side prep school stalwarts know how to find writers: “Who could show me the intricacies of things I thought simple. Who could shame me for my prejudices and compel me to understand both sides of a story and give each an abiding humanity.” But the guy in suburban middle-of-anywhere who reads erotica online at night in an attempt to get some sort of charge that will push him out of the doldrum tediousness of his life–where does he go?
Perhaps he meanders through his genre’s cyberspace until he finds a writer who speaks to him in ways wondrous but unfamiliar. Perhaps he finds you. Perhaps you’re lucky and he even drops you an email to let you know.
But if he doesn’t, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. And you end up meaning more to him than anyone lauded by the literary gatekeepers of the word.
You have reached that place.
Hi Ed,
Well, the wondrous thing about the internet is that whether you’re Upper East Side prep or suburban middle-of-anywhere, you have access that writing. A goodly proportion of it is sitting on the Gutenberg Project site, and what isn’t there can be bought for very little in electronic form these days.
The more frightening thing is that I’m almost positive that with the current levels of literacy and the emphasis on education that aims no higher than to pump out good little workers, there is the possibility that people will stop knowing how to read complex texts. Or rather, they will be able to READ them, but not interrogate them. If that makes any sense.
I was blessed – and yes, I mean truly blessed – with a very good secondary education. I think it is probably there where the act of reading actively is most easily taught. You can learn later – I’ve met people who learned at university, or taught themselves – but it’s much harder. It’s like learning a second or third language. So easy when you are very young and the brain is flexible. It gets progressively harder as you get older to admit diverse meanings, be limber about nuance, etc.
It is kind of you to say, Ed, but I have not reached that place. Not by a long shot. It is hard to explain why I know this, but there are aspects of writing – voices, framings, devices, structures, conventions that become the transparent tools of creativity in the hands of writers who really know their craft. Very often, too often, for me I realize that something has worked because I lucked out or by fluke instead of having that level of control that really accomplished writers have. The palette of language is not at my command. I feel like I’m forever jerry-rigging, just squeaking through. If I wrote more, I know I could get past this. I have known writers who have gotten past that stage of writing by the skin of their teeth and into a mastery. It’s a whole different level. And suddenly you go from wondering IF you can tell the story to making choices about WHICH of a thousand ways you should tell it. Maybe, in 20 years, I’ll be there.
You talk about a level of craft mastery. I talk about a level of being able to connect to readers. They overlap, but do not necessarily coincide.
My secondary education was mediocre. A few good teachers here and there. A lot of self-education on topics that interested me. I fell in love with Shakespeare young, which perhaps has helped, and joined the debate team. I suspect that my experience was actually typical. The education system only brings a fraction of the experience; the family and the immediate culture contribute much more.
Which, to me, means that the mastery of which you speak translates comes from exactly what you said, “If I wrote more, I know I could get past this.”
In my professional field, I am a local “expert” in giving customer presentations. Recently, I was lauded for some constructive comments I made to a corporate team. I had to blink–it was obvious to me. I knew exactly what “framing, devices, structures,conventions” to use. But that knowledge came from 18 years of making full day customer presentations every 6-8 weeks, plus study, plus learning narrative forms from other sources (like fiction), plus years before then of practice in public speaking.
In fiction, I’m a babe just barely beyond my bicycle training wheels. The roadster you’re flipping through hairpin turns looks pretty nice. So it’s amusing to listen to you say you’re “not there” because you can’t handle the Paris to Dakar rally yet.
Yet. I want a postcard when you get to Africa. 😉
My problem is that I was built for speed, not for distance, my dear. So when I run out of fuel, you’re going to be pedaling past me, grinning smugly. hehe.
Many, many erotica writers – successful ones – don’t mourn that their work will never be considered literary. They puzzle why there is minority of us who rage and kick and beat our heels against the floor about it. They are angry at us for what they see as a kind of ‘class war’. Why should we – and the public, the critics and the academy – place a higher value on literary fiction than on genre fiction.
I’m going to out myself as an unrepentant snob here, but oh well—might as well do it now and have done with it.
My first response the above quote is to think that if someone even needs to ask that particular question, trying to answer it is probably a waste of breath.
There’s a reason why literary fiction is taken so seriously. For one thing, and for me it’s the major thing: literary fiction tends to emphasize actual craft. To get into a lit mag, you have to actually know how to write. Your work is going to be judged strenuously. Your style needs to reflect years of diligent, disciplined effort…and believe me, these editors can tell the difference. You not only need to know your way around basic stuff like grammar, spelling, and punctuation, you need to have the kind of skill level that allows for artful breaking of the rules. On top of all that you have to know how to tell a story, or how to deconstruct what we would call “story” and reassemble it into word paintings. You need to consider things like linguistics, structure, and semiotics. And that’s just what I’m skimming off the top of my head. If I’d had a more relaxing weekend, I could probably give you a lot more.
Honestly, suggesting that erotica (or spec fic, or fantasy, or romance, or whatever oft-maligned genre you choose to make example of) doesn’t deserve of this level of craft is insulting to the genre.
RG,
Perhaps you might keep in mind that unlike the past, the worlds attention span today is very short and is very niche oriented. If the work is truly of quality it will grow in its own sense, for we know a hot coal can smolder for a very long time before a slight breeze feeds it life and causes a flaming inferno!
Thank you,
-TFP
I’m slightly puzzled by Catherine Leary’s comment I didn’t think your post was arguing that erotica “doesn’t deserve of this level of craft”, rather that erotic fiction wouldn’t be reviewed BECAUSE it was erotic fiction regardless of it’s literary merit. The fact that many writers don’t aspire to write books which would be considered literary and that publishers are more interested in making money than promoting great writing seems common to all genres. I think the problem with genre fiction in the eyes of the literary establishment is the perception that you don’t have to be a great writer to write it and so dismisses it as unworthy of it’s consideration. The specific problem with erotica is the commonly-held view that it’s just porn with high production values.
Hello Life,
I don’t think she was suggesting I was arguing that, actually. Catherine and I know each other a little. And she knows that I do indeed not only think that erotica IS worthy of this level of craft, but that I think it probably won’t survive in the long run without it. It will slowly be consumed by the popularity of erotic romance, and that will eventually become the new ‘romance’.
I was addressing this single quote of RG’s post:
“They puzzle why there is minority of us who rage and kick and beat our heels against the floor about it. They are angry at us for what they see as a kind of ‘class war’. Why should we – and the public, the critics and the academy – place a higher value on literary fiction than on genre fiction.”
The idea that we are “kicking and beating our heels against the floor” over a “class war” is ridiculous, because it’s not really about class. That’s not what’s happening when I bemoan the lack of erotica written to a literary standard. I’m bemoaning the overall lack of standard—that the genre (of erotica) itself doesn’t seem to be holding anyone’s feet to the fire. The genre of literary fiction holds the feet of its authors to the fire all the time. My point was that there’s a reason why literary fiction is “taken seriously” or considered “high class,” and that reason has to do with standards of craft.
Yeah, it’s true that genre writers don’t have to be great writers, or even good writers, in order to be successful. But…is that a good thing?
My own opinion happens to be no, it’s not a good thing.
It’s hard to have a standard for quality when retailers like Amazon slap anything from Penthouse Letters to Remittance Girl’s work with the same label. The standard set by the market for “My Son’s Slut” is pretty clear–does it lead to a good wank? Hence my argument that we need subgenres so there’s a chance of literary standards for part of the genre and the readers who want more than the wank.
Well, there are two ways through this. Sci-fi did, in fact, push it’s way up to a very high standard of literacy. For me, there are sci-fi writers who can wipe the floor, craft wise, with many literary fiction writers. But I think they had to push at the boundaries of the genre’s definition to get there. And they had publishers who were willing – at financial risk – to get there. There’s a great interview with Iain Banks where he talks about this. Because he also writes straight up literary fiction – which he calls mainstream. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAwVkQ-0_u0
Or, those of us who believe that there is a sub-genre of literary erotica need to give it a less unwieldy name and migrate off somewhere else, because actually I think Catherine is right. Being lumped in with, as you say, My Son’s Slut, is actually really soul destroying for me. I see erotic fiction as such a fertile place to interrogate very fundamental human understandings of identity construction, motivation, obligation, etc. At let’s face it, it it’s just sheer ‘get off’ value you want, what can possibly compete with visual porn? Why on earth bother with character development and plot if all you’re after is a self-induced orgasm?
On a personal basis, I’m puzzled by anything that would include ‘wank worthy’ as a proviso in erotica. Hell, I wanked to the English Patient. I wanked to Perfume. I wanked A LOT to Jane Eyre (you know – there were definitely unwritten girl on girl scenes going on in that school and then when she gets to governess status – oh, yeah. He’s doing her up against the 18th Century wardrobe while his mad wife is upstairs howling).
Meanwhile, there is much erotica that arouses me but doesn’t necessarily send my hand to my crotch. I think that good erotica arouses the mind. In the way that good murder mysteries arouse the urge to figure out ‘who done it’. In fact, sometimes it’s more memorable and satisfying when you CAN’T figure out who done it. Some of the best erotica I’ve ever read didn’t make me wank on the spot, but provided me with imagery that I took to bed with me for many years after I read it.
(I’m not getting a reply button to RG’s comment, so I’m using this one. Hopefully it’ll be right below hers).
Easy questions first: what can compete with visual porn? The reader’s imagination. Yes, Penthouse has pictorials of nudes and even hardcore sex (or they used to a decade ago). But Penthouse makes its money off its Letters. Similarly, there are taboos and fetishes that can provide a wank in writing that would be illegal or impossible to film.
As for why bother with character development when the wank is the goal–for many readers, a little character development goes a long way toward heightening the arousal. At least that’s my experience with storiesonline and literotica. The readers want the wank, but love the stories with a bit more.
Now, I happen to be in the same boat with you and Catherine overall. I tried to call my work “sexual fiction” because the story is about dealing with sex. I frequently say “Sex is Big” and I want to write about people grappling with it. My craft may not rise to literary standards, but the goal is often the same. Not always, because sometimes I kick back and write pure stroke material for fun. But the stories that I love to write and enjoy reading are the ones where characters tackle this Big Thing called Sex and all that it means and can mean.
As for ways through it–Smashwords gives a subgenre option of Literary Fiction. I like that. Amazon doesn’t. I hate that. But I take Smashwords as a sign that your first option of pushing up to a very high standard of literacy may be possible. I hope so.
As for the second option, the whole trick with migrating elsewhere is finding good ways to bring like minded readers with you. Or to help them find you. As I wrote before, one advantage of being in the erotica genre is that when a reader gets tired of erotic romance et al, they can find you.
I do wonder if there’s a third option which is to help literary fiction push into greater explicitness. I haven’t thought this through well enough, to speculate, though.
Apologies all round – I should have known better than to put words into the mouths (pens?) of not one, but TWO writers. I was going to make a killer point about Sci-fi but it seems RG has stolen my thunder
No need at all to apologize. I think once people know each other quite well, they start to converse in short hand – and everyone around them thinks they’re arguing. Hehe. Hugs. I’m sorry about stealing your thunder. The rip in the space/time continuum is yours 😛
No problem. 🙂
“The pallet of language is not at my command.” Bollocks! (but can I correct you on palette?)
heheheh. oh, you’d better! *pisses herself laughing*
RG,
Your insights strip bare what many others dance around but the truth is unavoidable. They resonated with me and articulated many of my own thoughts about cultural, societal and media norms in the 21st century.
Measured, intelligent, journalistic reporting, amongst other things, has given way to voyeuristic amateurs blaring “reality”. As the means and methods of public discourse proliferate, a cacophony of uninformed voices makes it increasingly difficult to get to the core of any matter. It has it’s pluses and minuses but clearly “cost effectiveness” is tied into the equation, as you pointed out. At what cost? The cost is too great in my opinion. It reminds me of my favorite lines by Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park), “It didn’t require any discipline to attain it. You didn’t earn the knowledge for yourselves, so you don’t take any responsibility for it. You stood on the shoulders of geniuses to accomplish something as fast as you could…” Humans often get so caught up in what they can do (i.e technology) that they don’t stop to consider the ramifications.
As for erotica and it’s so called literary value, you said what was on my mind for many years. Will I EVER be taken seriously as a writer if I devote my time to this genre? I don’t know the answer. I have simply decided to fly in the face of people’s prejudices, do what I love and devil take the hindmost. The articulation of the human experience takes many forms and talented wordsmiths from every genre contribute to the beauty of any evolving art form.
“Wordsmiths who could hold a poignant human truth in the palm of their hand, curl their fingers around it and transform it into something immortal in language.” BRAVA! A more worthy aspiration would be hard to find. I, for one, hope you are wrong about getting reviewed by the NYT:) Sorry for the length!
Anything I have to contribute you said right here:
“Well, I do care. Because I have a painful sort of pride. I have ambition, not to sell a lot of books, but to be a writer like the writers I have worshiped. Wordsmiths who could hold a poignant human truth in the palm of their hand, curl their fingers around it and transform it into something immortal in language. ”
There is another part of me that doesn’t give a fuck if the arbiters of great literature ever read a word I say. I know that often those are probably not my readers for a variety of reasons and it is okay.
This is something I battle with myself about. Do I care or do I not care? I’m equally passionate and angry about both when I talk about it with myself.
I think the important question for me right now is who is the voice of authority? My experience of the NY publishing world is that the entire industry is a mess. Publishers have very little idea of what they’re doing or how to do it. They don’t know how to respond to new technologies or to competition from Amazon, and they especially don’t understand what it is that authors do for them. More and more publishers are treating their authors like Walmart treats their vendors: abusively.
So, if publishers are no longer the voice of authority when it comes to standards of quality then who is? Agents certainly aren’t taking up the task, and the NY times is more interested in their advertisers than they are in advancing authorship.
I think the bright side is we’re left with a changing landscape full of new rules and possibilities. The “arbiters of good literature” that once told us what was good are gone, and the new ones have yet to sort themselves out.
What I love most about the new world is that I can get feedback from the people who are most important to me: my readers.
I have to agree with you 100% on your last statement.