Is prose the ultimate measure of a book's value?

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Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that a couple of weeks ago, E.L. James (author of the Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy) held a twitter event that took a turn toward the dark side. A number of people sent nasty tweets attacking her skill as a writer and accusing her of damaging women’s causes. I was disturbed by this, not because it happened per se—internet trolls are gonna hate, that’s no surprise—but because it seems to be the apex of a phenomenon I have a very hard time understanding, both as a writer and a reader.



Before I begin, I have two disclaimers. First: in this post I’m talking about the writing issue, not the abusive relationship issue, but I do not mean to imply this is an unimportant question.


Second: on the recommendation of a friend, I started reading the Grey trilogy shortly after it became a phenomenon. I made it halfway into the second book, and stopped; it just wasn’t my thing, and although my friend loved it, I just couldn’t get into it. No big deal—different strokes for different folks (no pun intended). 


I watched the backlash swirl around the books and have heard more than a few people trash the series. I’ve heard all sorts of jokes about how poorly written the series is, how cheesy, etc., etc.; I’ve seen the random generator that allows you to create Grey-like-prose-filled sex scenes. Before that, I heard people say similar things about how bad the Twilight series is, and before that, I heard people criticize the Harry Potter series with comments like ‘Let’s face it, it’s not great literature’ (interesting that such comments about the Harry Potter books have dwindled almost to nothing nowadays—but I'm quite sure J.K. Rowling remembers the early criticism all too well).  


When people snarked about the Harry Potter series, my response has always been: If it gets kids reading, I’m all for it.

When people slammed the Twilight series, my response was (and is): If it gets teenagers reading, I’m all for it. 

When people trash the Grey series, my response continues to be: if it gets adults to take time out of their busy days to read rather than surfing Facebook, I’m all for it. 


Still, it raises the question in my mind: is perfect, beautiful prose the end-all-be-all of writing a book? Is it the only form of talent and value? Sure, it’s important, and we should all strive for it. But is it the only thing that matters when it comes to telling a great story? Clearly not, if we agree that the novels mentioned above are not examples of transcendent prose. But it’s just as clear that those books have something that makes millions of people read them, some important IT-factor that pulls people in. There are so many other important elements to a great read that should be just as valued: Great story. Great plot. Great dialogue. Humor. Deep, compelling characters. Universally relatable themes. Excellent pacing. Expert world building. 


And, if I’m honest, I know that I’d much rather read a book that has a great plot and blah prose than a book that has a blah plot and great prose.

In fact…I hesitate to say this, but…

I love The Lord of The Rings. I currently own three copies of it, two in hard form and one on my Kindle. But, I find the prose nearly impossible to read without concerted effort. Yes, I hear your collective intake of breath and your declarations of sacrilege, but there it is. I personally find the prose mind-numbing, and in certain places am tempted to stab myself in the thigh with a fork just to stay awake. But I read it anyway, because I love the world that Tolkien created, and the epic battle between good and evil that he plots with such emotion and intrigue. And A Christmas Carol? One of my favorite stories; but that’s despite the prose, not because of it. And these are classics; nobody disputes their status, nor will they. Tastes differ. Styles change. But these books have something that keeps them alive, even for those of us who don’t connect with them stylistically.


Sure, I hear you saying ‘But shouldn’t we try to perfect all of these elements in our writing?’. Of course we should. But we also have to recognize that there is a time and a place for everything. For example, Dickensian prose in the Grey series would be silly and turn off more people than any of the purported transgressions James makes; it would just get in the way of whatever people are connecting with in the books. If the Harry Potter series was written in Steinbeckian prose or in the style of The Great Gatsby, how many six-to-ten-year-old children would have read it or listened to it for more than thirty seconds? We are always faced with these choices. And, all writers have strengths and weaknesses; few if any of us are masters of all aspects of the craft. 


And that, my friends, leads me to another question I struggle with: why do writers feel the need to tear each other down? Most of the harshest criticism I've heard leveled at books like the Twilight series and the Grey series comes from writers. I get that there is an element of professional competition (dare I say sometimes even jealousy?) in most fields. But I find it harder to understand when it comes to writing than with other professions. Clients may have only one general practitioner or one lawyer, may shop religiously at only one deli, but no reader has ever said ‘I only read the works of X’. Especially in this age of binge reading, once a reader is done with the works of one author, they move on to another, usually someone who writes a similar type of book. Because of that, I suspect Stephenie Meyer and E.L. James have done more to drive sales in the paranormal romance and erotica genres than just about any other single element in the past 10 years. So shouldn’t their successes be embraced and celebrated by writers in their respective genres, and across the board? Doesn’t it just give other authors the chance to demonstrate their considerable skill?


At the end of the day, who decides what is acceptable prose and what isn’t? Who decides which factors are most important in making a novel worth reading? Who determines if a book has that magic ‘IT’ that makes them want to keep reading and buy the next book in the series? Is it those of us who write? Is it the academics who study literature?


No. It’s the people plunking down their hard-earned dollars and investing their precious leisure time on the books. And in the cases of J.K. Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, E.L. James, and many others, they’ve spoken with resounding eloquence. 

How not to make an apricot-blueberry pie

I am frugal by nature. So when my mother-in-law sends me a bushel of apricots and apricot products from her mid-summer harvest, I set about to use it.

I also had in my possession a pint or so of ripe, sweet blueberries, so I decided to make an apricot-blueberry pie. I did a google search to see if recipes for such a thing exist, and lo-and-behold, they do. As it was 4th of July morning, I scanned the ingredients to make sure I had them all on hand, and found that I did, with one minor substitution. I did not have the necessary apricot preserves, but decided the homemade apricot syrup my mother-in-law sent would work well for the additional sweetness and flavor. Huzzahs all around, I would have the perfect complement to our celebratory independence day barbeque.

I sliced my apricots. I measured my ingredients. And last of all, I pulled out the apricot syrup to add to the pan of simmering fruit.

Dude. Really? 

I twisted the lid, and the glass sheared off completely, slicing through the flesh of my left hand as it did so.

(This might be a good place to mention that I’m left handed.)

It’s an odd sensation to have a glass jar twist apart in your hand, and as it did I thought ‘Huh. That can’t be good.”

I looked down at the big gash in the webbed area between my thumb and index finger, and confirmed that no, it was not in fact good.

(This might be a good place to mention that I don’t react well to the sight of blood).

My husband was in the backyard firing up the grill for the burgers. I ran toward the back door and yelled “Help!”

Annoyed, he turned toward me and said “Help with what?”

I held up my bloody, dripping hand in response, then sat down on the floor to keep from passing out.

As he got a towel to wrap around the cut so I wouldn't bleed all over the car on the way to the emergency room, an odd barrage of thoughts passed through my head:

At the scene 
(nope, this ain't fiction, folks)

Well, that’s going to need stitches.
Did I sever a tendon?
How do I keep the dog from trying to lick the blood?
What are we going to have for dessert now?
Did he put the burgers on yet?
I really should clean up all this blood before we go to the ER.

While he wrapped the towel around my hand, I relayed the thoughts that seemed relevant, asked him to turn off the stove and the barbeque, and put out the dog so she wouldn't lick up the syrup and the glass. Then I went into my bedroom to put on a different pair of shorts, because, you know, seriously.

And that's when I nearly passed out.

(This might be a good time to mention I’m prone to panic attacks.)

I was cold, my chest was constricting, I could barely breathe, and the world seemed three inches deep. I told myself firmly “This is just a panic attack, you’re fine, just breathe.” I forced myself to take long, careful breaths, and the world stopped closing in around me.

I grabbed a pair of shorts out of the drawer and realized I couldn’t close the top button with only one functioning hand. “That’s okay” I thought, “they tell you to loosen clothes on shock victims anyway.” So unbuttoned it stayed.

Although I don’t actually remember doing it, I apparently also grabbed my kindle. My heart swells with pride to know that even on the verge of unconsciousness, my priorities remain intact.

I walked out to the car and called to my husband to bring a bottle of water. He answered me; although he was only a few feet from me, his voice sounded very far away, like I was listening to him through a tunnel that had water whooshing through it. Despite the white fuzzy spots in my vision, I reached the car—only to realize I didn’t have my keys. I decided it was a good time to sit on the pavement and wait with my head between my knees.

When my husband came out, I got into the car and told him “If I pass out, let them know I was having a panic attack.” You know, because they wouldn’t have been able to figure that out on their own.

I don’t remember much of the drive to the hospital; I was focused on breathing and not throwing up. However, I do remember the moment when I thought he was taking the wrong exit and I yelled ‘NOT KAISER!!’, before I realized we were headed the other way off the off-ramp.

The intake nurse took one look at my pasty, blood-free face and buzzed me in immediately. She took my blood pressure and expressed professional surprise that I was still alive with numbers that low. She put me in a wheel chair and took me directly to a room where they plugged me into a miniature army of technology.

They asked me a bunch of questions that I now understand they are required to ask everyone, but which were very confusing in the moment:

“Do you feel safe at home?”
Yes, I don’t think the jar is going to come after me in my sleep.
“Have you been homeless or incarcerated in the last year?”
How the hell bad do I look? I made sure to change my shorts!
“Any medication?”
Aren't you supposed to make that decision? You’re the professionals.

Then they asked me what happened, and I explained that a jar of apricot syrup broke when I opened it.

“What brand?”

“My mother-in-law made it.”

“Oh, your mother-in-law.” They exchanged knowing glances and laughed. Apparently mother-in-law-induced injuries are not uncommon in the ER. I found this disconcerting, and started to wonder if I was safe at home after all.


They did their thing, very effectively and professionally, with grace and humor and top-notch care. It turned out I’d been extremely lucky; I hadn’t cut any tendons or significant nerves. They stitched me up and I left feeling well-cared for and excessively silly for succumbing to shock-and-or-panic-attack, taking up everybody’s time, and ruining my husband’s 4th of July.



So what’s the moral of the story? I think it’s this:

There’s a reason we have apple pie on the 4th of July.

My short essay, Impossibly Tiny, has been published!

Hello!

Just a short note today because I'm excited to announce that my short essay (just under 800 words) has been published! It's called Impossibly Tiny, and it's the true story of a sick kitten I found and raced to save; he taught me an important life lesson I really needed at that point in my life.

If you'd like to read it, you can find it by clicking here, published in Elephant Journal. And here's a teaser shot of the kitten:

Little Neo about a week and a half after I found him. :)

Happy Reading!
M.

This is Halloween

Tonight--Halloween night--is one of the most beautiful nights of the year.

I'm not talking about the weather which, even here in California, is a gamble. I'm not talking about the decorations, although some would certainly argue for a type of beauty in a good spooky haunt.

(Source)

I'm talking about the social contract that says, on this one night of the year, children may knock on strangers' doors and expect to be given a warm welcome and a piece of candy. This will happen in countless streets in countless neighborhoods in all fifty states, and in many other countries beyond. It's a true miracle of human spirit and community togetherness otherwise unmatched throughout the year.


We adults stock up on candy, not knowing who will come, or even how many will come. Some even spend time and money to decorate our houses with fun lights or spooky scenes, to help give children we've never met a special evening filled with fun and harmless scares. It's not just parents who do this, it's all sorts of us: single, married, with children, without. Young and old. Wealthy and poor.

(Source)

And when that doorbell rings, it doesn't matter who's on the other side. They don't  have to practice the same religion we do. They don't have to be the same race. They don't have to belong to the same political party, or think the way we think. We will open our door and give a piece of candy to any child who asks for it.


Next Halloween, take a moment to look down your street. Watch the lights as the children dash back and forth across the street, run from house to house, squeal at scary decorations and yell 'trick or treat!'. Walk down to the corner and look down the next street; notice the same thing happening there. And on the next. And on the one past that, too.


Tonight, the streets, the neighborhoods, they belong to the children. Not the drug dealers, and not the criminals. Watchful parents and neighbors come together to create a playground for the children to experience and enjoy. Filled with magic and fun and candy.


I can't decide if it's ironic or fitting that the night we set aside to pay tribute to the things that scare us the most--death, phobias, insects, vampires, ghosts, the dark, things that go bump in the night--is also the night we come together to celebrate and support innocence.  Maybe this makes sense, to prioritize the young when remembering that our time on this earth is finite, and that the cycle of life is inevitable. I don't know.

(Source)

But what I do know is this. Millions of children will fall asleep tonight with their heads filled with fun memories and dreams of their candy loot. And millions of adults got their hearts tickled by adorable costumes, and had a reason to smile the night away.


And that, my friend, is a beautiful, beautiful thing. May we carry a bit of that Halloween spirit with us throughout the rest of the year.