I browsed the shelves and got out six or eight books and sat down to read a page or two. You can tell a lot right off the bat.
The first one was by John Grisham. I think it was called "The Associate" or something like that. It started out about a law student coaching an inner-city boy's basketball team.
God, it was boring. I could hardly wade through six or eight pages of the first scene. It about wore me out.
The guy sees a cop or federal agent watching him. OK, big deal. Then later he gets outside and two FBI guys hassle him about an old rape charge.
Why should I care about this guy? I don't. This is a bestseller? You can't prove that by me.
Then I tried books by John Sandford, James Patterson, Richard North Patterson, Ridley Pearson, and three or four other big-time bestseller writers.
To me, they were all pretty much the same. These books are supposed to be thrillers, but I was not thrilled. I wasn't hooked. I wasn't even interested. They were unbearably dull.
This isn't the first time I've done this. In the past, I've tried Lee Child and Dean Koontz and Lisa Gardner and John Locke (whose stuff BTW is notable for its extreme use of cliches).
Years ago, I picked up a used copy of a John Sandford novel, and the first chapter was surprisingly good. It was about a group of high-powered biz execs who went on their annual deer hunt.
At the end of the first scene, somebody shoots and kills the chairman of the board. OK, so far, so good. Then the author says, "It was a real bad day for the chairman of the board." Or something like that.
Yargh! I threw the book against the wall. That authorial intrusion ruined it for me. I couldn't read any further.
I even read a whole John Grisham novel once, "The Firm." It was so repititious and badly written that I vowed I'd never read another one.
This was typical. These bestsellers are almost uniformly horrible. Poorly written and boring. I can't even read that crap, let alone write it. Trying to read it is a form of torture. Yargh!
So I made a decision: I will pass on the bestsellers. Who cares? If I was doing this to make money, I'd become a pimp, or sell life insurance, or go to law school, or become a hit-man. (Joking now. Har-har.)
From now on, I'm just going to write the best novels I can, by my own criteria. Travel my own road, and see that road by my own lights.
That decision feels right. It puts me in charge, the captain of my ship, the master of my fate.
For one thing, I can study the novels I love, the great books. You know, Tolstoi, Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy, James Joyce, Hemingway, Melville, Camus, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
No more crap.
Whew, what a relief.
I don't know if I'll ever be a bestseller, or even publish a novel, but at least I'll be doing what I love and doing it my own way.
Wish me luck.
Copyright 2011, Roger R. Angle
3 comments:
Roger, that is the only way to go.
Roger, you are a writer. You must write. Leave the business model out.
Like you, I used to get angry and frustrated about the crappy state of the music industry. Now I don't care. I just create. I won't turn away success unless it means "dumbing down" my art.
Please yourself and your own soul. If your books sell, it means you have found your audience.
Thanks, John and Sharine.
I think you are right, but in a way it means giving up a dream. Or part of a dream.
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