On Readers, Card Tricks and What Makes a Best-seller
Yesterday,I was at a series of talks on publishing, organised by the Society of Authors.It was an interesting, productive day, in which we discussed many things: theways in which the publishing industry is changing; the decline of print; games;fairer contracts for authors; the rising VAT on e-books. During one of thesessions I attended, a woman stood up and asked this question (at rather morelength than my version, but the gist remains the same).
“Why areso many best-selling books so badly written? Are editors not doingtheir job?”
Muttersof agreement from the auditorium. The woman sat down. The speaker spent sometime patiently explaining how hard editors work on behalf of their authors(they do), and how hard it is to determine objectively what constitutes “goodwriting” (very hard; maybe impossible). The woman seemed dissatisfied. Clearly, she (and a numberof others) felt that most popular, chart-topping books were on the whole badlywritten and worthless.
There followed some discussion. Much of it came down tothis: Most readers are too ignorant tounderstand the value of Fine Writing.
Hmm. Much as I sympathize with the frustration of authorswho feel undervalued and underrepresented by an industry constantly in pursuitof The Next Big Thing, I don’t think blaming the readers is the way to go.Readers come in all kinds, and their tastes differ accordingly. Just because Idon’t enjoy a certain book doesn’t make it a bad book – nor do my reading choices makeme better than anyone else.
Here’s the thing: you can read and enjoy a book for a variety ofreasons. Maybe it’s the exciting plot. Maybe it’s the characters. Maybe it’sbecause it makes you think about something in a new way. And sometimes, it’sthe language; the way the sentences are crafted. On the other hand, you may bethe kind of reader who doesn’t care or notice the language: perhaps you’re soimmersed in the fictional world of the writer that you never think of theirstyle at all. Not everyone wants to know how things work: you can buy a car becauseyou appreciate the engineering, or because it has comfortable seats, or becauseit’s eco-friendly, or just because you like the colour.
There’s a scene in William Goldman’s Magic (still one of the best unreliable-narrator thrillers everwritten), in which the hero, Corky, an apprentice stage magician who has spentyears practising card tricks for his big debut, finally cracks in the middle ofthe show and turns on the unresponsive audience, shouting: “Do you know howhard that trick was? Do you know how many thousands of hours it took for me tomaster that lift?”
Finally, when he has been escorted, still ranting, offstage,Corky realizes the truth: the audience doesn’t know, or care. Knowing andcaring isn’t their job. The artist’s job is to make them care. And if theaudience doesn’t care, then that’s not their fault, but his.
That’s what the lady at the Society of Authors didn’t seemto have understood. It’s what the mainstream critics miss, time after time, in scornfulreviews of the latest best-seller. Readers don’t owe us attention, understanding, love, praise or even respect. Readers don’t owe us anything, beyond the asking price of thebook, if they choose to buy it.
So, writers, repeat after me:
If a reader loves your books, that’s terrific. Be grateful.If they don’t like your books, move on. If your book isn’t on the best-sellerlist, it’s not because readers are stupid: it’s most probably because your bookdoesn’t have the broad appeal necessary to make it a best-seller. Move on. Orwrite a book with a broader appeal. Ordon’t. The choice is yours. What you don’t get to choose is what your readerswill take from your book: whether or not they understand all of the things youintended to convey; whether they finished the book or not; whether theyappreciated the prose or just bought the book because they liked the cover.Readers are your audience: it’s up to you to keep them. But as for what they takeaway -
That’s not up to you to decide.
