Literary or un?

I got a lot of feedback on my appearance with Joanna Penn on her blog, The Creative Penn. Mostly, from authors who were either unclear on my take on speed vs. quality, or who were defending a slow approach, saying that it took longer to generate literary fiction than commercial (with the inference being that literary fiction was more elevated, superior in some way, and thus worth it).

Which may be true, but misses the point. If you want to make a nice living writing, you probably shouldn’t be looking at the handful of authors who put out a Goldfinch every five years and get seven figure advances, because the chances of that being you are about the chances of the Olsen twins showing up at my door for a tequila-soaked pillow party.

But it does raise a question: why does literary fiction take so damned long to write, compared to genre, or commercial, fiction (in general)?

Alas, there’s no real answer. Many classic pieces of literary fiction were written fairly quickly, so it’s not that it’s impossible to do. It’s just that most take forever, and every word is agonized over, every comma second and third guessed. One particularly vociferous defender of that approach said, and I paraphrase, that literary fiction delves into the subtleties of why things happen, whereas commercial fiction sticks to the hows, so it’s more complex to write literary, thus requiring more time.

Which is right, unless, of course, it isn’t. I can think of plentiful examples where it’s just not so. I’m sure you can too. As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner comes to mind, knocked out in six weeks. Or A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, in a month. Or Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Gambler. And on and on.

I think those who take a long time writing literary fiction probably spend weeks per chapter on rewrite, trying to polish every word like a diamond. Which is fine. If you have a nice day job, or a trust fund, I say good on you. Maybe it will get picked up by an agent after numerous submissions, and then maybe a publisher will recognize all the effort that went into it and reward you handsomely. And then an eager reading public will line up for the hard cover, and soon you’ll be telling Neil Gaimen to suck it and dismissing Faulkner as a hack.

Alternatively, you could spend years trying to transmute lead into gold. The odds aren’t that different.

Somewhere, there’s a balance between quality prose where something happens, and self-indulgent prose that takes forever to generate, often where nothing much happens at all. I think that’s one of the distinctions I make: literary fiction is certainly self-indulgent, and when it works, the reader shares the author’s indulgence and appreciation of the nuance in the prose and emotional buffet, assuming there is one. Good commercial fiction can’t be self-indulgent, because it’s consumed as entertainment, and you get too navel-gazing, you lose your reader.

Another way of saying it is that literary fiction requires the reader to work, to develop an appreciation for nuance and subtlety, to gasp at the breathtaking cleverness of the author and nod along with his/her command of the language, whereas commercial fiction strives to keep the reader turning pages.

I have no problem with either type of fiction as a reader. I enjoy literary when I want to engage my brain. I enjoy commercial when I want to pass time in a pleasant, if perhaps, vacant, manner.

They both have their place. But not really in earning a decent living on Amazon from writing. Because, like it or not, Amazon readers are largely commercial fiction readers, not scholarly types looking for the next Blood Meridian.

My counsel is not to write fast to generate dross, but rather to apply yourself many hours per day to generate the most polished possible example of what you’re trying to create. Fast does not necessarily equate to bad, just as slow doesn’t equate to good. As with all things, it depends.

I will note that the defenders of literary fiction are almost entirely folks who don’t earn their livings writing. Perhaps that says something about its commercial appeal. Or perhaps that’s just the folks who email me. Or both. I see no reason to defend either type of literature – they’re both valid, depending on the desired outcome. Perhaps if one feels the need to defend their approach, they’re more emotionally invested in their approach than they are satisfied with its outcome? I don’t defend outlining, as an example. I recommend it as a way to save time where you’re staring out the window trying to determine what comes next as the story progresses. Some love that part of the writing experience, and that’s fine – but it’s also self-indulgent, in that it’s because the author loves the sensation, rather than because it makes for a more efficient novel writing experience. I’ve seen no evidence that my plotted novels are any worse or better than my pantsed novels – but I know the pantsed novels took three times as long to draft.

So when I recommend something, I’m doing so from experience, coming from the perspective of someone who is interested in efficiency of content creation, not how content creators feel about content creation. I could certainly argue I feel better writing 500 words a day than writing 5000, but nobody really cares when it comes time to cash the checks at the end of the month.

I approach content creation pragmatically. I want to generate the highest quality work I can within the commercial range, and do so with as little inefficiency as possible. So my advice is directed at those who wish to do the same. Not at those who wish to write To Kill a Mockingbird. For those whose hearts lie down the literary path, perhaps taking years on a draft is a worthwhile expenditure of their time. I have no truck with that. But it’s not a recipe for midlist authors to earn a good living. As long as one’s comfortable with that, no worries. But many aren’t, hence the frustration and the desire to defend.

You won’t find me writing any literary fiction authors defending my fast, commercial approach to genre fiction writing. It would be silly. I say write what you like, be realistic about the outcome you’re likely to achieve with your approach, and do it for the love of the work, because that’s likely all you’re going to get out of it besides carpal tunnel syndrome and a fat ass.

Or so I’ve heard.

Another way of looking at it from a pragmatic sense is to calculate what your time is worth, and ask yourself whether that extra 100 hours on fourth draft is likely to produce anything appreciably different than what you have on third. Perhaps it will, and perhaps, if your time is worth $50 an hour, you’ll see $5K extra in revenue for your effort. But at some point, there are diminishing returns, and only you know what those are.

Be nice to each other in the new year, and remember that it’s all good. There’s no one right way to write anything. Or if there is, nobody can agree on it, which is the same thing.