Again, it may be said that there are three kinds of authors. First come those who write without thinking. They write from a full memory, from reminiscences; it may be, even straight out of other people’s books. This class is the most numerous. Then come those who do their thinking whilst they are writing. They think in order to write; and there is no lack of them. Last of all come those authors who think before they begin to write. They are rare. ^
Is it too hard for us to admit that the reason the publishing industry is in trouble is that it is cranking out crap? We have no problem admitting the music industry’s decline for the same reason. When Hollywood has a bad season, we feel perfectly fine stating the obvious, that their movies didn’t make the cut. We can’t do the same for literature.
Over the past six years, I have picked up and tried to read the grand opuses of many new authors. I have to say that I’m less than impressed. Their technical skill is good enough, and they make witty turns of phrase easily. There are plenty of metaphors. The characters are fully fleshed-out. But I feel like I’m reading the end results of the world’s best creative writing course. It’s all method and no substance.
The average book now starts off with a few typical modern people in a typical modern circumstance. They’re broke. Their relationships have failed. They are alienated from their parents. Strangely, they never seem to question why this is so prevalent among all the people they know. Eventually, there is some cryptic and cathartic event, and after that, they accept fate. We assume they then become good consumers who watch enough television to numb the pain, or whatever it is.
These books ring hollow, and not just to me. Consumers are still buying a lot of books. They’re not finding any brands, however. Literature was once able to make brands because you could read The Sun Also Rises and think, not only was that well-written, but it was informative. I want to read more from that author, and other authors in the same literary circle, and people inspired by that author, and influences of that author. You weren’t buying a book as much as you were finding a whole line of books to explore.
Now, all of these books are about the same. You read one, you set it down. What changed in your mind? What changed in your life? Not bloody much. The characters and setting were different, but the story was the same, and no matter how “well written” it was, it was empty. So you forget about it 48 hours later, because it was like a TV program, just a restatement of the same ideas you’ve heard before. There was nothing intangible to link you to it.
In 200 years, people will read Jane Austen and Mary Shelley. They’ll read Ralph Ellison. They’ll read William Faulkner and William S. Burroughs, Oscar Wilde and Louis-Ferdinand Celine, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, Sophocles and Tennesse Williams. When they look at the books of the current time, they’ll see a gap in history, and wonder what people used to try to fill it.