On book snobbery.

Or, what George Elliot made me do.

A glass wall seems to exist between writers of 'literary' and those of 'popular' fiction. All waving at each other frantically, entrenched as they are, each on a side of their own. A mad dance that has no meaning, much like that famous tale told by a fool - as Shakespeare said of life. (Again, a divisive subject; there are those who adore him, and those who find him excruciatingly dull.)

To readers, none of that matters of course, dividing lines can be crossed with every new read, for all that really counts is a story that promises to take them 'lands away'.

It was, in fact, a quote by George Elliot that brought to mind the above and prompted today's thoughts on matters bookish :

       "To judge from their writings, there are certain ladies who think that an amazing ignorance, both of science and of life, is the best possible qualification for forming an opinion on the knottiest moral and speculative questions. Apparently, their recipe for solving all such difficulties is something like this: Take a woman's head, stuff it with a smattering of philosophy and literature chopped small, and with false notions of society baked hard, let it hang over a desk a few hours every day, and serve up hot in feeble English when not required."

George Eliot, Silly Novels by Lady Novelists

A near online rant if there ever was one, this essay was published over a hundred years ago, anonymously, to vent the author's frustration with the difficulties facing female authors who wished to publish works that acted as a social commentary on real life, as opposed to others who only peddled unrealistic melodrama lacking originality. Frothy, prosy, pious and pedantic was how she described the heroines, and attributed these books by lady novelists to those women's foolish vanity of wishing to appear in print. 

           "By a peculiar thermometric adjustment, when a woman's talent is at zero, journalistic approbation is at the boiling pitch; when she attains mediocrity, it is already at no more than summer heat; and if ever she reaches excellence, critical enthusiasm drops to the freezing point."

Again, this might have been written today. In her time, Elliot saw this as a conspiracy woven by men, who praised  the 'silly' ones so as to prevent women from getting any real education in social matters from literature. Today, another conspiracy, that of the greedy publishing houses might be put forward by supporters of Literary fiction. 

And yet... 

The thing is, no one likes to be lectured - or scolded as airheads - about what they should read, or write, what is 'good' writing, what is not. Readers read loads, some have their niche, some their comfort zone, some mix and match, and there is nothing wrong with that. Like with music and food (I think Love Bites by Def Leppard is one of the best songs ever written, and broccoli is the most misunderstood of vegetables, you, on the other hand, wouldn't touch either with a pole, but swear by Brahms and chocolate) there is no accounting for taste; and certainly no book police hanging around to check on anyone. Same goes for writers. In the end, it is all about the story. And statements like the following, from Silly Novels by Lady Novelists, suggest "the lady doth protest too much." (Do I sense a tinge of jealousy below?):

        "Every art which had its absolute technique is, to a certain extent, guarded from the intrusions of mere left-handed imbecility. But in novel-writing there are no barriers for incapacity to stumble against, no external criteria to prevent a writer from mistaking foolish facility for mastery."

Foolish facility? Imbecility. That's a bit harsh, though in all fairness, Elliot does have a point about the obstacles women writers of her caliber had to deal with, (using a masculine pen name, as did the Bronte sisters at first was proof).

And yes, it is not easy for authors today either, there are simply too many, and it is a combination of luck, connections, premise, content, timing; you name it. Good writing? Goodness has something to do with it. But not everything. A distinctive voice is a good start. Oh, and that glass wall? It doesn't really exist. Neither does a glass ceiling, for that matter. There is, however, a glass slipper, that fits only one: the writer who has found a voice, and will not succumb to book snobbery and labels, and will do that rarest of things: mind his or hers own business; writing.