Was that another digression? You bet. Back to the question of quality. And why I stopped reading romance. I stopped when I realized that it wasn't real. That the men were actually jerks. That the women were improbable. That this was nothing that spoke to experience. I still didn't notice the language. Or the angst. Or the structure; I just hated the lack of emotional reality.
In high school, I discovered Leonard Cohen. Well, actually, my mother adored him, so I discovered him earlier, but I paid attention to him in high school. To his lyrics and his words. I was approaching them by the humiliation of daily life, and the understanding of them made them real to me. This lead me, oddly enough, to poets. And to poetry. I wrote very little prose in High School. The prose I did write was so over-the-top it was awful. I had the emotion, the heart, the drive -- but the tools were so far beyond me, it's painful to reread anything from that period. (With one or two astonishing exceptions).
It was at this age that I formulated my "crap" and "not crap" rules of reading. I went the high brow route because it spoke to me more viscerally than much else. Patrick
White's VOSS was a revelation, to me. Michael Ondaatje's COMING THROUGH SLAUGHTER, the same. POWER POLITICS, Margaret Atwood's best known poetry collection, was a black and perfect look at gender interaction.
The first Heinlein book I was given was GLORY ROAD, and I think I threw it at the person who gave it to me. The first fantasy, aside from the C.S. Lewis books, was THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD. Which I adored, and I still adore. For someone who wanted reality, the magic enthralled -- but the emotional anchors were so true the local reality only underlined them. And at this stage, I was becoming aware of language.
So there I was, a teenage snob. Who had grown a love of SF from the more feminist novels I'd read. That didn't change much. I could pick up some of the SF and toss it aside as poorly written because of characterization. I could grind my teeth in smug superiority at the fact that these people were doing paint by number characters, if they bothered at all. The great thing about being that age is that I thought I knew everything <wry g>. bobafet, if you ask how that's different from now, you are going to suffer. I'm just saying.
I discovered the Scribblies (Brust, Dean, Bull, Shetterly, Lindholm to name a few), and I was in a state of bliss. But with few exceptions, it became clear to me that the better written I thought a book was, the less accessible it often was as well. This was frustrating, because they were entirely accessible to me.
However… some time later in life, I began to read what I call Comfort books. They became my guilty pleasures. I knew that they weren't realistic, and I didn't care. They had the heart that I had when I was young, and they spoke to that, and I was content. I couldn't write them :/. If I could write just one Robin McKinley book, I would be happy. I discovered Guy Gavriel Kay in my twenties, and he is a pleasure that is entirely without guilt. I of course read Tolkien, and he is my desert island book.
Never tell a crowded store of SF fans that you don't like Larry Niven's writing. I'm just saying.
How does this relate to everything else I've been saying? There are whole swathes of readers who have no desire to write. And many of those readers can read the early works that I no longer can; they can read books written in that vein that I no longer can. What they want out of the book, they find -- and the writerly tools that I spent so long developing? Not helpful in making my books accessible to them. Because if, in the end, I want to be read widely, there has to be some melding of the reader that I was with the writer that I am. And this means that I can't have that kind of flippant contempt for anything that moves a reader. Although I can make exceptions.
I no longer look at romance novels with dread or contempt because somewhere along the road I realized that the point of them was not, in fact, to be realistic; it was to entertain, to comfort. In fact, I look at almost nothing written with derision any more. I look instead at what those novels provide to readers. Some of those things can never be provided by me. I hate that. But I accept it; we write the stories that speak to us, because those are the ones we have. Some of those things, I might be able to provide, in the context of what I do now. I've heard writers whose character work I despise speak of their struggle to make those characters real because those characters are real -- to them. This was also illuminating, in that it made clear that we can only write what we can perceive; that what I thought was sloppy was not, in fact, any such thing; the writer and I had entirely different modes of perception. Full stop.
So at forty, I know far less than I thought I knew. And as people become vastly less self-conscious about what they read, novels that would have made conservatives squeamish are available everywhere, and widely read. There's a lesson in this, but I'm not entirely certain what it is. Women's and YA fiction has certainly become a much more vital industry; the fiction aimed at boys and men, while it does sell in droves, has become almost less of a concern as publishers everywhere try to figure out how to tap into the numbers that exist in the romance market, and in the Harry Potter market.
I can't help but think that this is a good thing in many ways; that women no longer feel the need to hide what they read or enjoy reading. Norah Roberts has become the chart-topper, a solid slap in the face for all of the publishing and bookselling people who firmly believed that romances simply would not sell in hardcover. But I'm not sure where that leaves me, as a reader or as a writer.