When Never Ending Thoughts Stifle an Expansive Mind

Rosie here again bringing you a random thought.

Well, in all actuality, it isn’t so random—at least not for me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a little bit now. So, why not share the reflection with the masses?

The assessment was this;

Has the dwindling of high quality literature attributed to the abatement in the reading public’s expectations? Or, is it the reading public’s desire for tawdry literature that’s ascribed for the decline in quality reads? Or, perhaps it’s a combination of both…?

I truly have no idea. What I do know is this … I’m flabbergasted at the enormity of books that I’ve picked up lately that in my humble opinion (and in the opinion of those whom know great literature) are less than par.

And yet, so long as it’s drenched in mindless sex, the general public seems to be absolutely enamored with it.

My good friend, Y. Correa, was telling me about a book she’d been reading. She said it was awful (as in horrid, not amazing), that the writing was mediocre at best, but it allegedly was a New York Times Best Seller.

At first I thought that she might be overreacting. I thought, “It obviously can not be that bad if it’s a New York Times Best Seller.” So I looked it up and found that about 90% of readers LOOOOOVED the story.

The other 10% hated it and spoke on how terribly written it was and how it was nonsensical and irrational. They also stated that it was rife in sex. Then I thought, “How bad can a sexy Erotica be? I mean, I love me some great Erotica. And from the looks of it, this one is at the top of the game.“

So, I said to Y, “Hey, let me borrow it. I’d really like to give it a look-see.”

Her reply, verbatim was “All right! But, you’ve been warned Rose. I know how picky you are about Romances, so I don’t want to hear your fussing after the fact.”

I was like, “Y, cut it out. I DOUBT, it can be THAT bad!”

“You asked for it.” she said, then shortly thereafter sent me the book.

Immediately I dove in. I was so fascinated by the prospect of reading this book that so many loved yet my good friend loathed. I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how she could be so rash in her judgment of an obviously terrific book.

The prologue was interesting, albeit written sort of choppy with some incomplete sentence structure and such, but I let it slide because of this line, “I love two men. I f*ck two me.“

The lover of fantastical romance dramas in me came to attention at that statement. I was like, “Holy hell, THIS is gonna be RI! DI! CU! LOUS! WOOWOO!” * Insert uber hyper high pitched voice here *

Ridiculous as in wonderful, that is.

Without further adieu, I dove in. My bag of chocolate drizzle popcorn and blue Poweraid by my side, nibbling and sipping as I went along. All that was missing was the dark room and flashlight to complete the perfect picture of a night filled with sinful erotic indulgence.

Ladies and gentlemen, by the fourth chapter I was livid. Raging! Fuming!

Somehow, I’d mentally flung my Poweraid and popcorn across the room. In my imagination, I’d taken my Kindle and slammed it against the floor—irate at the ridiculousness of this book. This time, “ridiculous” was a bad thing.

I had a vision of myself having a tantrum and whipping my legs and arms around, thrashing like a crazed, enraged lunatic. 

Of course, in actuality, none of those things happened because it was the dead of night and my neighbors might not like it so much.

I was like …

AND HOW, IN GOD’S NAME, IS IT A NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER!?

There was no way! No damn way! Yet … there was and it was.

Unable to process another thought, or even complete the book once I’d hit the half way point—I actually kept reading out of curiosity as to how bad it really was—I instantaneously found myself pondering the questions above.

Can it be?

Can it be that in today’s society an atrocious excuse for an Erotic Romance such as the one I’d just read is exactly what readers are looking for? If that’s the case, then I’m never getting anywhere!

No, I mean seriously, I’m screwed.

My writing style is wholly different, entirely. So I find myself in a conundrum; do I start writing to fit in, or do I continue to write the stories that are bountiful in my heart?

I suppose that if I were to start writing books that the general public would enjoy, then I’d be putting my individuality, integrity and self-respect on the line.

However, if I continue to write what I love, then I’d be sacrificing marketability and potential sales.

So which is the right path to take?

What do YOU think?

Rosie