Stacia Kane

While spending a few minutes checking my lj friendslist yesterday, I came across Jim Hines’s post about some big race discussion that’s apparently been happening right under my nose and I wasn’t paying attention.

I’ve seen this mentioned in passing elsewhere but given that I was on two deadlines and am trying to make heavy progress on a new project, AND have agreed to participate in a Mentoring program at the Romance Divas forum (yes, I am a mentor now; scary, huh?), my internet time has been even more limited than it usually is. Well, hell, I don’t have to tell you guys that; I’ve been blogging regularly for, what, three years now?, and missed two scheduled posts last month because I simply didn’t have time.

So I don’t know what all this is about. I’ve spent some time following links but am still rather confused about the whole thing. And frankly I’m not sure I want to know; I avoid internet drama whenever possible, so generally when I see posts that seem to be referring to such things, at best I skim them.

There are subjects we don’t approach here on the blog. We don’t generally discuss politics, as you know; and if you’re new to the blog, you might want to check this short post about keeping the blog light and fun, or, especially, this post about why politics are not a part of my blog and never will be. (Interestingly enough, I discovered a link to that post a while ago from a gentleman who referred to me as “that person” and said I was wrong because those of us who are educated and know the facts have a responsibility to educate others. Which amused me highly, it really did; I especially liked his bland and arrogant assumption that people who disagree with him or anyone else do so because they’re stupid and uneducated, and not because they simply have different values or ideals or, you know, their own minds. And thus need to be lectured by someone who views himself as so much more clever and informed and valuable than they are; another one who must be a real hoot at parties. Which illustrated to me the point I made in that post perfectly. Anyway.)

In fact, that political post is pretty helpful as background reading here, I think. Because again, the purpose of this blog is to be fun. To have fun. To entertain. Yes, I do posts about writing and publishing, and those are meant to educate–but hopefully in an entertaining fashion. I don’t see it as my job to tackle big issues or be some sort of guru (even if I actually thought myself capable of being such). I don’t see this as a place to expound my political or religious or moral or whatever views–we do dip into morality on occasion, yes–because I want the blog to be an inclusive place where everyone feels welcome. Everyone. Because you are. I think and have long thought that my readers are awesome; smart, friendly, fun people, and that we’re always happy to see someone new pop in and comment. There are too many places where that doesn’t happen; where new commentors are ignored, where commenters who disagree with the blog’s admin are ripped into and made fun of, are called names, are followed back to their own blogs and picked on there. Where questions are answered with vitriol and respectful comments with insults. This is not one of those places and it never will be. I hate those places. No matter who runs them I have never liked them, and avoid them.

All this is my way of saying that I genuinely had no idea all this drama was happening everywhere.

And I say that because in following some of the links left in Jim’s posts I noticed several people bemoaning the lack of comments or support by fantasy writers.

I hardly think I’m important enough to count. I am essentially unknown; I’m not a “big voice” in any genre–I’m hardly a voice at all. So I really don’t think anyone is watching me or my blog and being disturbed by my silence, but I’m going to break it anyway simply so there will be no doubt.

And really, my link-following has only skimmed the surface. I don’t know how the discussion started or who did what to whom and why; I have an idea based on the bit of reading I did but how it all snowballed and blew up everywhere I don’t know. And I’m not posting this in order to take sides or join the fray.

And I will say this as well. I love this blog and I love my blog readers. They are wonderful, warm, intelligent people. I’m not going to tolerate people coming here and starting shit with them. I doubt that will happen. But I’m saying it anyway.

So here is my basic statement. It’s based on what I’ve read and it’s based on seeing readers wondering why more fantasy authors haven’t spoken up (and to be fair, I am certain that the vast majority of my pals have no idea this is going on either). I don’t want there to be doubts and questions about why I haven’t said anything. It’s because I didn’t know. And now that I do I am going to say something, but again, this isn’t a topic I wish to have endless discussions about. I’m not joining anything. I’m just saying my piece, because even the small ampount of reading I did showed me that some truly horrible things have been said and done and I don’t want there to be any doubt that I disapprove of such things.

Judging people or stereotyping them based on the color of their skin is wrong. Implying, even if you mean it kindly, that all people of a particular color or ethnicity think or feel the same about any given issue is wrong; there is as much diversity in minorities as there is anywhere else. Because we’re all people.

Treating people like shit is wrong. Treating them as though they are less than human, as if they exist for your personal gratification, as though their feelings don’t matter and you can just do whatever you want to them, is wrong. Ignoring the possible consequences of your actions on another person’s life and/or livelihood is just wrong.

Threatening people is wrong.

Taking petty revenge on people is wrong.

Refusing to listen to other people is wrong. Discounting them and/or their veiwpoints because you don’t agree or don’t like what they have to say is wrong.

Judging people or calling them names simply because they don’t agree with you is wrong.

We’re all human. And being human means we’re kind of scummy. We all have thoughts of which we are not proud. Whether it’s socialization or simply the fact that at heart we all still have a greedy little “Mine! MINE!” baby who is jealous and hateful, we ALL sometimes have thoughts of which we are not proud. The human mind is a bizarre and wonderful and terrifying thing.

When I was three years old I grabbed a metal spoon from a kitchen drawer and bashed my brother over the head with it. For no reason, at least not that I can recall (I actually don’t remember the incident at all). He was just sitting in a chair watching TV.

What was going on in my mind? I don’t know. What I do know is, I had a thought–to bash Ray over the head with the spoon–and I acted on it. Today, I might still have the same thought; one of those crazy things that just pops into your head, like wondering what would happen if you walked up to a stranger in public and said, “You know what? I fucking hate you,” and walked away, or if you pushed someone for no reason, or any number of crazy things that pop into my mind and I am pretty sure pop into everyone’s minds at one time or another. But today I would not act on it. I might be secretly amused or horrified, but I wouldn’t act on it. Because I’m not three anymore.

I believe racism, sexism, discrimation or whatever in any form, among reasonable people, are the same thing. We ALL have unpleasant, embarrassing, or downright hideous thoughts from time to time. Hopefully not many; hopefully not too bad. But you can’t control the crazy, unlike-you thoughts that pop into your head, any more than I can control the fact that once every few years I dream I kill someone and am trying to hide the body, and the sick, horrible sense of shame and despair that dream engenders, and the intense relief on waking and realizing I have not in fact killed anyone (this generally leaves me feeling great for days: I didn’t kill anyone!)

What you CAN and SHOULD control is the expression of those thoughts. And what you can and should control is how you react to having something you said commented on. You offended someone? Just apologize. Why do we all need to be right all the time? What difference does it make, really? Even if that’s not what you meant. Even if you think the people interpreting your words are batshit crazy for thinking that. Just apologize. Try to figure out how or why you offended them. And let it go. Period.

It’s easy. It doesn’t matter. You can still think you’re right, even, if you insist. But just apologize. It’s not being a doormat. It’s not admitting you’re a racist or sexist or you discriminate against unattractive people or mice or Weeble-Wobbles. It’s just apologizing, and everyone gets to move on. And I think if we all consider it we’ll realize that most of the big problems in our lives could be avoided if we’d just quit having to be fucking right all the time and allow other people to think and feel their own thoughts, in their own wacky brains, where they are at any given moment probably contemplating running naked through the office or fucking the elderly receptionist or peeing in the hallway, because those are the kind of loony uncontrollable musings their brains create. (What? I can’t believe I’m the only person in the world who’s ever wondered what people would do if I peed in the hallway. You know, acting as though nothing was wrong and everyone does it; just lean against the wall, lift my skirt and push my panties to my knees, and have a go right there on the floor. I’d never actually do it, of course. But I can’t be responsible for the bizarre fantasies in my head–as long as they remain in my head–and neither can anyone else.)

It’s not pleasant to be called on those thoughts. It’s not pleasant to be called a sexist or a racist or a sizeist or anti-gay or whatever else, when you firmly do not believe you are and do not want to be. But it’s also not pleasant to be the one on the receiving end of a comment or action that hurts or offends you, or makes you feel less than human. So in that situation you have two hurt and confused people, and the best thing to do is for the one who did the hurting, no matter how inadvertent it was–and we’ve all hurt people inadvertently, every one of us–to apologize. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you.” It’s very easy. Note that there’s no “I’m not a purple-jean hater!!” outrage attached to that. It’s simply “I’m sorry.”

And it goes both ways. The one receiving the apology could also apologize thusly: “I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way, and I didn’t mean to hurt or insult you, just to point out that your comment could be construed in a way you didn’t intend.” See? Again, it doesn’t matter who’s right or wrong, or what anyone meant. What matters is both people have been accorded the dignity every human being should be accorded, and both parties have a chance to move on with dignity, and reach a new and deeper understanding.

This is what being an adult is, to be frank.

And that’s basically it. Like I said I’m not aware of the whole discussion. And to bring myself up-to-date would take hours and hours of time which I frankly do not have. In fact, not only is it time I don’t have, but I get the distinct feeling that those hours would be spent growing more and more upset and disillusioned and frustrated and sad, and would leave me unable to focus on work or anything else, and I still have two books to finish and a website to build and an apprentice to mentor. (“Apprentice” is the term the program in which we’re participating uses.)

And really, does it matter if I know the whole story or not? I’ve said my bit. I’m tired of anger and entitlement and the idea that other people don’t matter. I’m sick of seeing it everywhere. I don’t want to see it anymore.

Every person sitting in front of a keyboard and typing out all those words with which you disagree? They are people. Human beings. Maybe we could all remember that? Just try to keep it in mind, is all. There’s no excuse for treating them like they’re something less than that. Less than you. Less than anything. I avoid blogs and forums where people are treated that way. I avoid blogs and forums where being vicious to other people is encouraged. Those are not places I want to spend my time.

I write about pain. I write about isolation and disillusionment and the utter and complete lack of belief that life is worth living. I write about blood and magic and filth and evil and death. I write about abuse and hatred. I write about loneliness and misery and secrets and the uncertainty of life and people who have nothing but honor, people who can’t connect with other people, people who bleed rivers of pain if you cut their skin.

Quite frankly, my worldview is already twisted enough; there’s plenty of misery floating around in my head already. I don’t need to go find more. That’s why I try to keep the blog a positive place and that’s why I avoid getting into arguments etc. online, and avoid visiting websites and blogs where people are regularly turned into cannon fodder.

And I guess that’s it.

And sigh again.

I wasn’t going to talk about this, I really wasn’t. Because I don’t want to piss off or upset people. I certainly don’t want to make readers, the lovely people who spend money on books, angry with me.

But I just…It’s like the opinion is a pot of coffee, percolating in my chest, and it’s going to explode. (Incidentally, I feel kind of weird thinking that nobody uses percolators anymore. My parents were never coffee drinkers, but my Grandpa was. And when he would come visit the smell of coffee and especially the sound of the percolator, that particular burble-sploosh noise, would wake me up in the mornings. I used to really like it; I was fascinated by the percolator and could never figure out quite how it worked, you know? All those childhood machines that seemed like magic to me, and none of them are in use anymore. The percolator, the 8-track tape, the flashlight that ran because of how fast you squeezed the trigger thingie…anyway. No time for this; this is going to be a little long anyway.)

So everybody knows about this Stephen King/Stephenie Meyer thing. Basically, Mr. King said in an interview that Ms. Meyer “can’t write worth a darn.”

And for reasons I cannot fathom, it’s being treated like he said Hitler was a really good guy or something, or that in his spare time he enjoys molesting children.

Leaving aside the truth or lack thereof of his statement itself, and leaving aside the fact that although he claimed Meyer can’t write worth a darn he did say he understood the appeal of the books…

So what?

There seem to be two schools of thought among the “Fry him! FRY HIM!” crowd. The first is that he’s jealous of Meyer’s success, which is, IMO, patently ridiculous. Stephen King is arguably the most successful writer the world has ever seen (and no, you cannot bring up the people who wrote the Bible or the Talmud of the Koran or whatever). No, I’m serious. Think about it for a minute. How long has the man been writing bestsellers? How many of his books or stories have been made into major films? Adapted for television? Turned into series? How many of those film adaptations have garnered Oscar nominations in any category?

Now think of one other author, living or dead, which that kind of success. ONGOING success. I suppose it’s possible to argue that JK Rowling hits it, but King’s written something like thirty books. JKR has not. Tolkein had massive, unprecedented success, but again, not as many books.

So the idea that Stephen King is jealous of Stephenie Meyer is silliness. I’m sorry but it is, and there’s another reason why it is, and it ties into my whole feeling about this.

I suspect womanhood has something to do with it, yes I do. And that something is, everyone saying these things seems to be female, and more importantly, seems to be upset not that one writer is commenting on another writer’s work, but that the commenting writer has a protruding pee-pee and the one being commented on does not.

I know.

King said some not-very-nice things about a few male writers in that article too, but nobody seems to be jumping up and down all over the internets to say how Mr. King is just jealous of Mr. Patterson. In fact, no one seems at all bothered by the fact that not only did King call Petterson “a terrible writer,” he didn’t even qualify that statement anywhere by saying he sees the appeal of Patterson’s work, or that Patterson has very cleverly tapped into something in his audience’s collective subconscious.

So…why? Why does it seem okay for King to criticize Patterson, but not Meyer? Why isn’t anyone throwing “jealous” around?

Yeah. I think a big part of it is that Meyer is a woman. And I think there is a very ugly assumption beneath this, which is that a woman cannot take criticism. And sadly, I think there is a segment of the female writing “society,” for lack of a better term, which truly cannot take criticism, who flounce around saying things like “If you’ve never written a book you can’t criticize” or “It’s hard work to write a book and the author deserves something for that and it’s mean to say her book isn’t very good” or whatever other whiny little excuses these namby-pambies toss around to justify their own total and complete lack of professionalism.

We’ve seen these people online. We see them all the freaking time, in fact. They’re the ones who stalk Amazon reviewers or decide to name transexual AIDS-riddled prostitutes after people who give them mediocre reviews (and let’s keep in mind, btw, what sort of person thinks “transexual” is a worthy insult) or send nasty emails to reviewers or start blogs where they put up nasty cartoons or send hate mail or have hissy fits in comments or whatever the fuck it is, and thus make all female writers look as though we too have never progressed beyond the 9th grade.

This attitude seriously makes me ill. You know what, gang? I seriously doubt Stephenie Meyer gives a fuck what Stephen King says. And good, because she shouldn’t. I love Stephen King. I think he’s fantastic. And I would love to think he’d read my work and enjoyed it; that would be a huge thrill. But you know what? if he loved it, that’s just one man’s opinion. And if he hated it? That’s still just one man’s opinion.

And jealous? Why is this argument so rarely brought up when two men are involved? Why do we hardly ever see someone claiming, for example, that Steve Jobs is just jealous of Bill Gates? or that, I don’t know, Javier Bardem is just jealous of Benicio del Toro? Not that I’m aware of these men making comments about each other, but really, can you imagine it? So why then, does this crap come up when women are involved? Stephen King is a grown man, people, and I don’t know about you but I’ve never seen anything before that would lead me to believe he’s the kind of man for whom jealousy of other writers is a problem. Have you?

Stephenie Meyer is a published author; she’s written four enormous bestsellers. Let’s give her a little credit, shall we? Let’s assume she’s mature enough to shrug this off and go on writing, and not behave as though she’s crying in the bathrooms by the gym and she won’t come out until Stephen writes her a note that says he’s sorry and gee, golly, the dance is tonight and she was our ride and we’re gonna get Stephen and pants him in the cafeteria?

We’re all entitled to our opinions. (In fact, one could argue that Meyer is one of the few people Stephen King can actually criticize *without* looking like a bully; who else is big enough?) And in the grand scheme of things, this is such a non-issue it’s not even funny.

I was going to tell you about a book I bought the other day, which I haven’t finished, but which is so well-written my jaw keeps literally dropping open–but that will have to wait until next Monday, because this is so long already. Sigh.

Our old friends, the RWA.

Well, to be fair, it’s not the entire RWA by any stretch. Just the ones who make the rules.

These women; the RWA board. (Although to be fair I don’t know if the President-Elect or the District Heads have any say or not.)

Published romance authors all of them–in other words, people who depend upon YOU for their living–who have nothing but contempt for readers who enjoy reading ebooks, particularly erotic romance ebooks. They think your tastes are too lowbrow; they think the books you enjoy reading are garbage; they think the fact that you prefer (often [but not always] less expensive) environmentally sound and convenient ebooks means you aren’t really reading books. They think what you like is low quality. Beneath them. They think you are obviously not capable of recognizing good writing or good stories. They think you’re rabid, filthy onanists who spend all your free time slavering over porn and wearing out batteries or giving yourself carpal tunnel.

And they are determined–DETERMINED–to see that the books you enjoy will never gain any sort of respect, because such books are no-good crap. And your opinion matters not one bit to them. They are going to make absolutely goddamned sure that you realize how nasty and gross they think you and your tastes are. The fact that you might enjoy them? The fact that you might find it difficult to read books because the print is small and you can make it larger on your ereader? The fact that you live in a small house and don’t have much room to store books, so you buy ebooks instead? Perhaps you’re an environmentalist. Perhaps you simply are a fan of certain ebook authors. Or maybe you just enjoy reading really hot explicit romances.

The RWA board has one thing to say to you: Fuck off. The books you like are shit. (Okay, that’s two things. But still.)

Do you wonder what’s brought this on? How I know that the RWA board–people who sure want you to buy their books–thinks this way of you?

I’ll tell you why (like you thought maybe I wouldn’t.) I might have mentioned this before, I don’t recall exactly. But there was a new rule added to the RITA contest this year. This rule was NOT given to the general membership for voting; it wasn’t even mentioned to the general membership. No one was warned it would be in there. It was simply sneaked in under the wire, because the RWA board didn’t want to openly discuss it–they didn’t want to take any chances that RWA members might hear about it and point out what a disgusting and contemptuous way this is to treat paying members of an organization, and the fans of those paying members, or readers who simply like ebooks.

These are the RITA-specific rules:

“Books entered in the 2009 RITA contest must:

Be a work of original fictional narrative prose.”

On other words, no ebooks allowed. Only mass-produced books, books with print runs, are good enough to enter the RITA.

The purpose of these rules, in general, is to ensure the contest is fair; but more than that, rules about non-vanity, non-subsidy publishers are there to make sure RITA judges don’t get snowed under by a flood of self- or vanity-published, unedited books. In other words–deliberately inflammatory ones–to make sure they don’t get snowed under by a bunch of crappy, poorly edited books.

And apparently ebooks qualify, in the eyes of the RWA board, as crap.

That’s right, readers? That ebook you read that touched your heart and made you happy? That kept you on the edge of your seat? That made a long train journey more enjoyable?

The RWA board thinks it’s garbage, and you’re a dipshit for enjoying it.

It’s possible right now that you’re thinking, “But that just means the RWA board doesn’t consider epublished books really published, right? Isn’t there another contest for unpublished authors? Maybe this is ebook discrimination, but in a different way; maybe they’re not saying ebooks are crap, just that they don’t consider that ‘real’ publishing. Which is bad, but, y’know, not quite as bad as telling a whole bunch of readers that the RWA board thinks the books they like are shitty.”

And that might be a fair assumption, except epublished books are not eligible for the Golden Heart contest for unpublished writers.

See here:

“The Golden Heart contest is open to writers who have not accepted a publishing offer from a non-Subsidy, non-Vanity Publisher for a work of original fictional narrative prose of 20,000 words or more by the contest entry deadline.”

See? It doesn’t say anything there about a book not being considered “published” if it’s an ebook.

And to further clarify, RWA’s President, Diane Pershing–a woman who wants you to buy and read her books, remember–had this to say:

“The phrase “mass-produced” as it pertains to the RITA contest, is intended to define eligible books as those that are produced in sufficient quantity by the publisher to be offered for sale to the trade (booksellers and librarians) at standard discount rates and returnable.”

So there you go. The RWA thinks its dues-paying members who write ebooks should not sully their precious fucking RITA with their dirty, substandard books. And because those books are dirty and substandard it stands to reason, then, that people who LIKE those books are somehow themselves dirty or substandard. Ms. Pershing thinks you’re an idiot, in other words, with bad taste in books. You don’t know what romance really is, according to her; you wouldn’t know a good story if it bit you on the ass (although, don’t say “ass” around her because that’s one of those filthy words.) Your tastes are crap; you are incapable of judging the quality of a book or story, and she wants nothing to do with you (oh, except, of course, hopefully buying one of her books! Because you need her help to learn what a real book is, you see; hopefully one day you’ll wise up and learn that what you like isn’t good enough.)

This is bullshit. This is the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever seen in my life.

Why is anyone standing for this? Why the hell are epublished writers still paying dues to this organization that clearly thinks they’re a bunch of useless hacks? And why the hell would romance writers, women who spend so much of their time feeling forced to defend their genre to snobs of every other genre, turning around and being such insufferable, unapologetic, discriminatory snobs themselves?

And seriously, why does anyone bother being an RWA member? As I’ve said before on numerous occasions, aside from the local chapter meetings (which I gather some people enjoy, but I still think you could organize a good writing group without the RWA sticking their lousy noses into it), the RWA offers NOTHING. It does NOTHING. I can quite honestly say that being a member did not advance my career one iota. Not one bit. It did nothing for me, at all. The RWA provides not one bit of information that cannot be had online anywhere else for free.

As it is? It seems to me paying dues to the RWA is like having a store tell you they won’t hire you to work the register because you’re (too short/too fat/blonde/black/a woman/a man/Asian/insert some other offensively discriminatory adjective here) and then continuing to do all your shopping there.

Any other market or group or whatever in the world would react to this type of discrimination with outrage. Any other market or group or whatever in the world would not countenance this type of discrimination, period. “Some are more equal than others” isn’t permissable anymore, not in this day and age.

Now, I know I’ve said before that readers don’t need to care about the RITA. And I still feel that way, to a large degree. But this isn’t about the RITA itself. It’s about the books you love, and how a group of writers of other books has gotten together to tell you they don’t consider those books to be worthy of their time or their awards, and that as writers in the genre you read, they think you ought to be toeing their line and reading what they want you to. They think your judgment is bad; they think you and your favorite books suck, and you can all fuck off.

I am hugely, HUGELY offended by this, and you should be too. Because what the RWA board is saying, very clearly, is that they do not want members who write ebooks, and they do not consider readers who enjoy ebooks to be readers they are interested in. They don’t want to give the books you love awards; they barely tolerate authors you love as members. They do not want to invite the writers you love to signings or events. They don’t think the writers and stories you enjoy are worth their time or effort; they think you have bad taste and are not particularly smart.

And what’s particularly funny about that is, this is the same group of writers who not only have never bothered to learn anything about epublishing, but who STILL cannot figure out how to define “erotic romance”. WRITERS. WHO DON’T KNOW THE MEANING OF BASIC WORDS. Who after three or four YEARS still haven’t figured it out. They don’t want to have to give awards to erotic romance, because remember, they don’t think books with sex in them are “real” romance; they think you erotic romance fans are just dirty, filthy consumers of dirty, filthy porn, and they want nothing to do with you. (Wow, that definition thing inspires a lot of confidence in their ability. Is that like a professional violinist who can’t find F-sharp?)

Oooh, this pisses me off. I am so glad I let my membership lapse. I had actually considered entering the RITA this year, but I’m glad I didn’t, because I will never, ever give the RWA another penny of my money until they change this shameful policy.

Funnily enough, I started planning this post on Saturday, and yesterday I wandered over to Smart Bitches and saw they were wondering the same thing–as, apparently, was a writer at The Guardian.

I’m not sure I agree, though.

See, I read a bad book this weekend. A bad book (and no, I am not going to tell you what it was, so don’t even ask). A book I found almost no–no, make that no, period–redeeming features about. It was badly written and clunky. It was all tell, no show. There was some awful sex in it; really, really bad, complete with orgasms that sounded more like epileptic fits and terrible, unsexy word choices. I was informed characters were smart, when in fact the book showed them to be insipid ninnies; I’m surprised they were able to figure out how to work a faucet. The hero was an asshole, of the self-pitying crybaby type; the heroine was a hateful, childish moron.

Bad characters are one thing, but bad writing is insulting. And this was badly written, oh yes. I cringed. I gave so many snorts of incredulous laughter the hubs asked if I was coming down with a cold.

Now according to the Guardian writer, and the fabulous Bitches, this should be a positive experience, and make me better able to appreciate the really good books I’ve read. And I suppose to some degree that’s true.

But reading that dreck made me think. It made me think about a review I saw once on Amazon, in which the reviewer complained that a character’s backstory was not explained in the beginning of the book–in other words, she was upset there hadn’t been an infodump.

And it got me thinking. What sort of books did that reviewer normally read, that she expected the main character’s entire backstory to be explained right up front? You don’t generally find those as much in popular fiction (and by “popular” I mean NY-published books with large readerships.) Oh, sure, you see them on occasion, but I think most professional editors see infodumps for the marks of amateurism they are, and don’t buy novels with that sort of thing in them.

Which tells me that in large part, that reader was probably reading largely Bad Books.

I could be wrong, of course. It could simply be that she doesn’t read much (or he; I don’t remember the name of the reviewer or anything else about them.) Or it could be he or she does read good books and dislikes all of them for the same reason.

But I’m always amazed when I see books I’ve read and thought were just terrible on a technical level get great reviews. I don’t mean books where the writing wasn’t stellar but was serviceable, and the plot was good enough to keep me involved. I’m talking about really, truly awful books. The kind we’ve all read; the kind where, for example, historical characters use modern verbiage, or every other sentence ends with an exclamation point, or entire sentences fail to make any kind of sense despite several readings. (Here’s an example of what I mean, that I just made up:

She held a hat in her hands and walked along the river, before it falls and blew away into the night sky with the water flying everywhere and tears hit her shoes.

See what I mean?)

So I see those positive reviews, and I can only assume one of two things. Either the reviewer hasn’t actually read the book, or the reviewer is simply so well attuned to terrible prose that they don’t notice it anymore, in the same manner as someone living near a dump wll eventually no longer smell the garbage.

Now, I’m not claiming my own writing is so great, either. This isn’t about me being better than anyone else. Who knows, maybe the book I read this weekend is actually great, and I’m the dipshit who isn’t smart enough to get it (although the reviews of it I’ve seen elsewhere agree with me.)

But whether or not it’s a skill I truly possess, good writing is important to me. Words that snap and flow, images and metaphors that are poetic and clear. Characters who practically climb off the page, but not in a creepy The Ring kind of way. Plots that make sense, and fall neatly into place.

These things are important. Good writing should be both easy and difficult to read; it should resonate while challenging us. It should feel strange and familiar at once.

But once you grow accustomed to reading books where that challenge, that strangeness, that unique voice, isn’t present…perhaps good writing becomes harder to see? Harder to recognize? Isn’t it possible that, much as a person who only ever eats potato chips may have a hard time eating something more complex–indeed, may begin to hate something more complex, as it forces them to experience something new and different–reading nothing but bad prose may make good writing seem too hard? Too much of a challenge. Instead of wanting to watch a story unfold we begin to want everything up front; we don’t want to get to know the characters, we don’t want to spend time in the world. We don’t want to have to pay attention to what’s on the page, in other words.

I’m not saying every book we read has to be incredibly high quality, not at all. And again, I’m not saying I’m such a great writer, either.

I’m just wondering if perhaps bad writing, instead of teaching us to appreciate good writing, only breeds more bad writing. When a writer reads published books as part of their learning process, and those published books are lazy, lousy, and unclear…what does that say to them? What level of work will they shoot for, if they think the terrible book they’ve just read is where they need to be?

What do you guys think?