Let books not suffer snobs

I’m sorry, but I thought the argument about who gets to define art was over. Or at least, had been deconstructed so thoroughly that attempting to mount an argument has been deemed not only pointless but laughable. And correct me if I’m wrong, but since when does anyone get to say that black text on white pages bound between two covers has any more obligation than a Saturday evening popcorn movie?

In other words, since when do all books have to be art? And who are you to say that a book is not?

Recent current events have launched myriad discussions about what a book is allowed to be. Apparently, it’s not allowed to be any of the following:

a) merely entertaining
b) chick lit (come on, you saw that one coming)
c) conceived, designed, and/or written by committee
d) a product to be sold

And so I must pose the question: Why the hell not?

Let’s take this one backwards. The “books are art, not product” thing has been bouncing around in several places, not the least of which is a discussion on Bookseller Chick’s blog which asks about the validity of movie and television tie-in novels. BSC herself doesn’t take a stand, which makes sense, since she, you know, makes a living at selling all manners of books, from Proust on down to the latest Buffy tie-in manga. My favorite response, hidden amongst all the ravings vis-a-vis “it’s a travesty that not every piece of black text on white paper between two covers isn’t a timeless classic of literature” is the following, by Robin Brande, who argues:

I see no reason for all the snobbery. Books to movies, movies to books, TV to books–let’s have them all. It’s all story-telling, and if someone wants to watch a movie based on one of my novels instead of reading it, I’m not going to complain. Or if someone is so excited by a television show they want to read a dozen books based on the series, great–they’re reading.

Word. I know a lot of authors who do tie-in novels. Sometimes they do it to pay the rent, or support other, more independent pursuits (a lot of those Buffy novelists are writing Bombshells and urban fantasy in their spare time). Sometimes they are honestly thrilled to be able to play in such a fecund sandbox (which sounds rather gross, but there you have it). How come you are to be envied if you’re invited to, say, write a spec script, but not if you write a novel tie-in for the same show? How come, if it’s printed instead of shot, you are somehow held to this high expectation that it needs to be art?

Sometimes a book is a product. Actually, no, it’s always a product. It’s bought, it’s sold, it’s returned, it’s paid for with credit cards and gift certificates, it’s sold alongside coffee and magazines and breathmints and Itty Bitty Book Lights and porn, it’s a stack of rectangular bound paper (unless it’s Clarissa, which is practically a square, it’s so frickin’ thick) with a barcode on it. Product.

Books are always products. They are produced by publishing houses in order to make the publishing houses money. They are only produced by pulishing hosues if the publishing hosue thinks it will make money.

You’re getting confused. Books are always product. Sometimes, also, they’re art.

Okay, moving on. The next thing that books are apparently not allowed to be is created by more than one person, slaving away (and hopefully tubercular whilst doing so) in a garret with a typewriter. Television shows can have whole teams of scriptwriters. Movies have directors and producers and actors and art designers and makeup artists. Even plays, those grand old dames of the artisitc world, are created by committee. They are written and directed and acted and choreographed and set designed and costumed designed and music designed and lighting and makeup and who knows what else designed and everyone has a hand in influencing the final product. But books, oh, the holy medium! They cannot be produced by more than one person, well, at the most two, but only if they have equal billing, none of this “as told to” and hell no to the “ghostwritten” or “writer for hire” bullshit. And don’t even speak to me about packaging! That’s heresy! An abomination! Don’t you realize these are boooooooks?

Please.

Next. Chick lit. Wow, do we have to do this again? I’m weary of talking about it. Nothing anyone who actually reads and knows something about the genre has to say about the matter will convince some people that books with “cute and curvy dresses on the cover” are anything but crap. The argument about judging books by their covers was clearly lost on these snobs. Most of them haven’t even read the really interesting chick lits, or indeed anything at all beyond a few post-Bridget bestsellers. And don’t get me started on booksellers who have decided that, like the Jack Black character in High Fidelity, they are the self-appointed guardians of culture, doling out their pet books to people they deem worthy and “qualified” to read it. that’s like when that Corrections bloke decided that soccer moms in flyover states who watch Oprah weren’t good enough to read his book. You people should be ashamed of yourselves, first off for dismissing a whole genre of books based on some color choices and secondly, for deciding who gets to read what, where, when, and why. I’ve read all your blogs this week, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

And finally, “books can’t be merely entertaining.” Whoa. Who died and made you the thought police? Books can be whatever their authors want: entertaining, meaningful, entertaining and meaningful, entertaining but not meaningful, meaningful but not entertaining, neither…

I’m a genre writer, so my goal is to make my books entertaining, first, last and always. I hope also that they are meaningful to the person who reads them, but entertainment is the point. Of course, what passes for entertainment is different for everyone. Me, I’m entertained when a book: makes me laugh, a lot; makes me cry; makes me think about a time we don’t live in anymore, or have never lived in, or haven’t… yet; makes me think about another place; scares the crap out of me; worries the crap out of me; makes me wonder what I’m doing with my life; makes me think about religion; reminds me about things I’ve learned, or things I wish I’d known; teaches me things I don’t know at all; inspires me to do something; discusses the nature of love; makes me think about my relationships; makes me wonder what I’d do; talks about cool ways to have sex, or to do anything else (kill people, blow up shit, make a cheesecake, jump off a cliff, drives a sportscar, whatever); makes me question my beliefs; distracts me from a bad day; or any of another endless list of reasons that books can entertain me. Don’t kid yourself: being entertained is meaningful. It’s as meaningful as it gets.