The measure of excellence is a pursuit with which writers and critics are often intensely concerned. At the end of each year any number of magazines and organizations issue a list or series of lists to quantify the year’s best books, stories, poems, and essays. There are anthologies for each year’s best short fiction, poetry, essays, mystery writing, travel writing, non-required reading, comics, humor, science and nature writing, and sports writing. As soon as these lists and anthologies are released, people who care about such things react. We agree or disagree and explain, enthusiastically, why. Another year passes and another set of lists and anthologies are released and so it goes.
Most everyone who discusses “best of” lists and anthologies says these measures don’t really matter, that they are silly, but clearly these measures hold some value or we wouldn’t discuss them with such frequency and vigor. These measures of excellence matter because they set a tone and make a statement, one that is sometimes troubling, about what is valued in literature. I tend to see these measures for what they are—a set of suggestions based on arbitrary, narrow, and subjective standards. These suggestions generally reflect the literary zeitgeist and reveal the trends that interest major publishers and magazines. However, let’s not be coy. These measures also matter because most writers, even if they won’t admit it, wonder if (and hope) their work will someday be recognized as excellent, as the best. Unfortunately, for some (oft-marginalized) writers, the possibility of such recognition feels rather dim and the dimness of that possibility also sets a tone.
Establishing a standard of excellence for literature is a seemingly impossible task so critics make best guesses. All too often, though, it feels like those best guesses are being made from a very limited range of options. There’s also so much that remains unknown in these measures. Rarely is any substantial explanation offered as to why a book or story has been deemed excellent as if the writing in question is so excellent the justification for inclusion goes without saying. Such is not always the case.
This week, The New York Times released their list of the ten best books of the year. There are no surprises on the list and all kinds of disappointment because most of these books represent a rigid, narrow spectrum of excellence. It would be lazy to attack this list in petty ways so I’m not going to do that though including Stephen King (a writer I admire and enjoy) is vaguely insulting in the same way it would be to reward Angelina Jolie for still being beautiful and altruistic—in both cases, excellence has already been amply measured.
My disappointment in The New York Times list this year is not necessarily about the books being honored. I am disappointed by the lack of imagination in the choices and the marked absence of so many excellent books published this year that made neither this list nor the 100 Notable Books the Times recognized last month. These lists cannot possibly include every book published (nor should they) and a staggering number of books published each year. I recognize that. There are always going to be omissions but some of the omissions could be more aptly described as gaping voids. A major press published every book included in the Ten Best Books of the year list. The relative absence, on both the long and short list, of experimental fiction, short fiction, poetry, and books published by small presses (save a few exceptions) is dismaying. There are also profound cultural absences. I would not say there is no diversity in these lists but there is not enough to diminish the overall sense that far too much of human experience is willfully absent.
I have no problem with major presses. If they ever come calling, you better believe I’m going to answer enthusiastically, but as a writer whose career has, thus far, been sustained entirely by small presses and literary magazines, and as a reader and critic who has been exposed to truly outstanding writing from these presses and magazines, I cannot help but wish some of the work in that community was recognized by the “paper of record,” and other arbiters of excellence.
Most of the reading public gets their literary news from The New York Times. As such, the paper bears a responsibility for the decisions they make about the year’s best books. Part of that responsibility must include recognizing books that might otherwise not receive the critical attention they merit. That responsibility must include fostering a better, more inclusive and creative measure of excellence. When I consider this year’s long and shortlists, I get the sense that the people making these decisions are choosing to read narrowly and irresponsibly by not doing the work of seeking out the vibrant work being published by small presses and lesser known literary magazines. They are failing to take a more imaginative approach to identifying the year’s best writing.
In October 2011, Jeanette Winterson wrote a provocative essay in The Guardian on readability and literature where she said, “There are plenty of entertaining reads that are part of the enjoyment of life. That doesn’t make them literature. There is a simple test: ‘Does this writer’s capacity for language expand my capacity to think and to feel?’” The books I loved most this year, books that deserved serious consideration in any measure of excellence, were compelling both in terms of language and what that language expressed. As I have considered which books I would include on my own “best of” list for 2011, several books immediately come to mind, books I find myself discussing over and over because they are memorable and excellent, because they have expanded both my thinking and emotional response to literature.
I cannot fathom of a list of the ten best books of the year that does not include Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water (Hawthorne Books), a book that exquisitely demonstrates the writer’s capacity for language—language that was imaginative, intellectually stimulating, and emotionally resonant. Yuknavitch’s memoir was one of the most stunning books I’ve ever read and undoubtedly the best book I read in 2011. More than that, the book is innovative in structure, tone and spirit and marks a real evolution in the memoir genre. Excellence is not about perfect writing. It is about perfect intent and few books this year demonstrated perfect intent better than The Chronology of Water.
Bonnie Jo Campbell’s Once Upon a River (Norton), was another outstanding book I return to willingly and eagerly. The novel focuses on life along a river in rural, economically distressed Michigan. Campbell took a unique, subtle approach to portraying an independent young woman who endured all manner of violence but was also able to create a different kind of life for herself with a gorgeous, quiet strength.
Mule & Pear (New Issues Poetry & Prose), a collection of poetry by Eliza Griffiths, was perfect in intent. The writing was imbued with intimacy and each poem worked in conversation with important texts by black writers. The sophistication of the book’s project left a vivid impression. Griffiths tackled sex(uality), slavery, the strength of women, the mark of history, and the power of language, in fierce poems that were so memorable I return to them over and over.
Blake Butler’s There Is No Year (Harper Perennial), was a dense, bewildering experimental novel that frustrated me as much as it intrigued me. To this day, I cannot be sure if I love or hate the book. I cannot decide if Butler is brilliant or laughing at all of us. But as Winterson suggests, the language in this book expanded my capacity to think and feel. I was actively engaged from the first page to the last. I questioned what I was reading, at times loved what I was reading, at times wanted to throw the book out the window, but never was I passively staring at the page. I also know I have never read anything like it and doubt I ever will again. Surely, that uniqueness, and the way this book challenges the reader is a mark of excellence.
Other books I would have loved to see on the notable or ten best list include Silver Sparrow (Algonquin) by Tayari Jones for the moving, bittersweet story it tells, This Is Not Your City (Sarabande) by Caitlin Horrocks for the range of stories and narrative styles the collection holds as well as the impeccable prose, Zazen (Red Lemonade) by Vanessa Veselka for the sheer audacity, Green Girl (Emergency Press) by Kate Zambreno for the fierce, and complex interrogation of the female experience, and I could go on. These are books that either experiment with language, and/or tackle important social issues, and/or tell amazing stories—books that deserve to be recognized for their excellence yet like far too many such books, remain noticeably absent from discussions of the best literature produced this year.
This predilection for tastemakers to reward successful, major presses is not only harbored by the Times. When I consider the state of publishing, I am often preoccupied with a sense of absence—the books and stories not being published or recognized as excellent. Last year, I wrote an essay, “A Profound Sense of Absence,” where I was quite critical of Best American Short Stories 2010 not because of the quality of the fiction, which was generally beyond reproach, but because of the homogeneity of many of the stories that received the imprimatur of “year’s best.” There was a demographic narrowness in many of the stories that made me uncomfortable. It was also frustrating to find that most of the stories were published by a small number of literary magazines. Best American Short Stories could have more aptly been named Best American Short Stories About Upper Middle Class and Wealthy White Heterosexual People That Were Published in Elite Literary Magazines. There were certainly exceptions, but not enough.
To be fair, the stories in any year’s Best American Short Stories and the books recognized by “best of” and “notable” lists are a reflection of the writing being published. The problem of how excellence is measured, at least a good portion of it, lies with editors and publishers. Year-end anthologies cannot recognize culturally or stylistically diverse writing, if it is not published in venues where it will be noticed.
In Best American Short Stories 2011, six stories were published by a little publication called The New Yorker. Granta, Tin House, and McSweeney’s each had two stories in the anthology. These magazines are undoubtedly publishing excellent writing but their dominance also tells us that beyond the elite tier of magazines, it is more challenging for excellence to be recognized or acknowledged.
The three most interesting parts of BASS 2011 were the foreword by Heidi Pittlor, the introduction by guest editor Geraldine Brooks, and the list of Notable Stories at the back of the collection, a list that does include stories from a broader range of literary magazines while also listing a mind boggling nineteen (by my unofficial count) stories from The New Yorker and several stories for each of a number of other elite magazines like Ploughshares, Tin House, Ecotone, and Granta.
Just as I have no problem with major presses, I have no problem with elite magazines. I read them regularly. I certainly submit to them. One of my favorite short stories this year, Laura van den Berg’s “I Looked for You, I Called Your Name,” was published in Ploughshares. The one magazine I read the instant I receive it is American Short Fiction. I am never disappointed by The Paris Review. And yet, I also know there is brilliant work, deserving of recognition, being published in smaller, lesser known magazines like Hobart, Everyday Genius, Guernica, New York Tyrant, and again, I could go on. These magazines publish writing that is as consistently excellent as the writing in the elite magazines yet rarely does it receive a fraction of the recognition. The editors of the Best American anthologies share the same responsibility as the arbiters of excellence at The New York Times, to read beyond known quantities, to venture into the less predictable world of smaller presses and magazines, to set a different tone and measure for how we measure literary excellence.
In her introduction to BASS 2011, Geraldine Brooks says, “A great piece of writing is the one you feel on your skin. It has to do something.” I have no disagreement there. Great writing is often visceral and something you experience in the body as well as the mind. Toward the end of her introduction, though, she has strong words of advice for writers, suggesting, for example, that there are enough stories about adultery and that love stories do not need to end bleakly. She notes, “Foreign countries exist,” and, “There’s a war on.” She wonders why religion mostly appears in stories as a foil for humor and suggests that there is too little humor in short fiction. She goes on to say that, “There’s nothing wrong with writing stories set in bedrooms, classrooms, kitchens. These are the places where we spend large slabs of our lives. But the air becomes stale there.” I read enough to know these are fair observations but I would also suggest that the air also becomes stale in narrow publications that privilege a certain kind of story, detailing a certain kind of experiences, from a certain kind of writer. It would have been useful for Brooks to acknowledge that as well.
Much of what Brooks challenges in short fiction can be found in her selections for this year’s anthology. On the whole the writing was, as in last year’s anthology, beyond reproach. Once again, though, I was struck by the overall white, straight, and middle or upper class aesthetic of the choices. I am increasingly resigned to this inevitability. Yes, there’s a wonderful, fraught story by Jess Row about a biracial nurse who is involved with the daughter of the Korean woman he cares for. There’s a good story by Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie about a man in Lagos who feels trapped by his marriage and his upper class life and who thinks with some nostalgia and regret about an old girlfriend who has recently tried to reconnect. There’s a story about the complex friendship between two gay men in Chicago. Caitlin Horrock’s “The Sleep,” was imaginative and engaging. Beyond these selections, the stories are what you might expect and they tend to blur together as a mass of exceedingly competent writing that is not as memorable as it should be for a collection measuring excellence in short fiction.
Both Pittlor and Brooks make a point, in their commentary, of suggesting there should be more writing about the war though none of the anthology’s selections do so. Critics are newly obsessed with asking, why aren’t more writers writing about the war and at times, the question seems dismissive and simplistic. The simple answer is perhaps, for whatever reason, writers don’t want to write about the war. The more complex answer is that maybe they don’t know how or that this war is, even now, relatively young. Perhaps writers (and I include myself in this group) don’t know what to say about this war yet. I wonder, though, why we don’t see the same demand for writing about other serious problems the world is facing. Where are the stories about the economic crisis or the systematic attack on undocumented immigrants who are being deported at an alarming rate or the political fracture of our government? Where are the stories about the complexities of race, ethnicity, sexuality and gender? These are issues that are just as urgent as the war and deserve the same literary attention and yet there is scant evidence of this urgency in Best American anything.
After I wrote my first essay on this sense of absence, several people asked what I’m looking for. It is difficult to articulate and yet it isn’t. I am not looking for a quota. I do not have a checklist. But I do want more. I want to no longer feel like too much is missing. I want writing that is more vibrant, more interesting, more challenging, more daring, more unexpected, more reflective of the world we actually live in and the people who populate that world. I want to see writing that takes chances and makes me uncomfortable and that makes me think. I want to read books and stories that are memorable and that don’t become part of the incoherent blur of things I once read. All I want is everything.
The writing I want to see is out there—I read it every day in literary magazines that are renowned as well as those that are lesser known or just starting out. I read it in books from major publishers and small presses and even micropresses. I do not find enough of that writing recognized by arbiters of excellence.
There are always so many prescriptions for writers about what they should or shouldn’t write about, about what they’re failing to write about, and about what they’re writing too much about. Rarely do we consider that writers are not the only ones in the literary ecosystem who need prescriptions. Perhaps, we should offer prescriptions for readers, editors, and critics to develop a more complete measure of excellence, and a more responsible, risk taking, and inclusive way of reading.
24 responses
I guess I pretty much expect The New York Times Book Review Top 10 to be comprised of major press books. The major presses are the ones buying the full-color ads that run in the Review every Sunday all year long. So fine. That’s what the 100 Notable Books list should do, and you’re right, with only a few exceptions, it doesn’t. What’s really dismaying though is that every Sunday all year long, the Book Review has the opportunity to showcase the best of what’s being published, including in the small presses, and all year long they usually just feature the major presses again. They run reviews of major press books they find mediocre, instead of giving a small press book that’s EXCELLENT by most accounts a shot at a readership that would also probably find it excellent. Some major press books even get reviewed TWICE, once in the Sunday Review and another time in the regular paper on, like, a Wednesday. The Top 10 list doesn’t just show us a lack of diversity once a year in December. It reminds us it’s an issue 52 weeks a year.
Thank you for this amazing essay and for all the references to writers & stories. I look forward to exploring!
Despite being white, upper middle class, heterosexual, etc., I too often feel a wistfulness when looking at Best Of lists (maybe you should add East Coast to the list of typical characteristics of winners, so many Best Of books and stories are of the New York variety and I am a born and raised West Coaster). But when I talk with other friends who feel the same way, the books or stories we wish had been included rarely converge. And this is true with me and several books you mention (although I will say that Horrock’s This Is Not Your City was one of my favorites of the year as well). Taste is so often unique; stories that talk to your soul seem to be speaking Greek to me.
But, as always, Roxanne, thanks for your quality thinking and honest argument. I enjoy reading it.
I also agree with Guy’s point about the NYT giving so much ink to so few books. With so many novels coming out, why would they devote a review or story to the same book twice? Winners do seem to be chosen in advance.
p.s. You should update your bio–Ayiti is no longer in the future tense! It is here now, exciting and working its way up my bedside table stack.
Rayne, I don’t think your identity excludes you from feeling wistful when considering these measures of excellence. Identity and socioeconomics are only two factors that determine, generally, who is and isn’t included in these measures. As I note, writers who also reside outside of the stylistic mainstream, tend to be excluded. Writers who aren’t well known tend to be excluded. The list is long. When I write about this subject, people tend to assume I’m writing about myself but I’m actually writing about the bigger picture. I tend to feel wistful and like I won’t ever be on the “inside” where my work will be seen not because I’m black but because of the types of stories I write, that are often explicit in their depictions of sexuality and violence.
Guy, I agree and the disproportionate coverage some books receive in the Times. Do we really need ten articles about the latest Franzen book? Surely five would get the job done.
Sherry, if you check any of these books out, I hope you enjoy the,.
I meant Rayme, I am typing in the dark.
Roxane, these are words well said (or writ, I suppose). I recently reviewed Lydia yuknavitch’s book for Plazm magazine. We already love her, we’ve published her, we’ve invited her to read at Wordstock. You’d think we wouldn’t be surprised by how undeniably incredible A Chronologyy of Water is. yet it hit me like a a metric ton of rocket fuel. Any supposedly literary world in which the arbiters of taste aren’t exposed to small press works like this, or gawd forbid, read it and pass it over in favor of the obvious, needs a makeover and an infusion of new life.
One thing that caught my eye was your mention of immigration. I’ve been out of the literary loop quite a bit in the last few years, but what I remember from before that is that immigrant or ‘exotic’ stories were definitely privileged. Could the average boring white American like myself get away with writing such lush and over the top prose as Arundhati Roy (Who is brilliant, but I thinks you can see my point)? If my story is set in Minnesota, how much wacky magical realism will be accepted in my work, compared to what people might accept from a south amerian writer? A typical love story or coming of age tale might be passed over if it’s about another white suburbanite, yet writing of the same quLity might garner attention because the led characters and author have African names and a classic immigration angle. I wonder if your have any words, descriptive or proscriptive, for people who dont have exoticism cred but don’t really want to write like the usual great white Easterners and MFA-or-workshop clones who populate the NYT’s.
pardon weird typing, I
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Well said Roxane. My personal feeling is that the people who formulate these lists are a) encouraged to choose from a select list (the usual suspects) and b) human and just don’t have the time to look harder for good stuff, or don’t want to. Either way the issue runs both ways–as someone who is white and heterosexual (but definitely lower class)and who has been deemed by the big presses as “too radical” (not in so many words) I have also found it difficult to get recognition from certain segments of the Indy lit scene here in Seattle precisely because it seems to favor women and minorities. Whatever. It’s just the way it is and I find it all silly and counter-productive. I’ve never written anything precisely for one demographic or audience but I do think it’s a writers job (if they choose to accept this assignment) to reach people–which is why I wrote American Junkie the way I did–which has a broad appeal, from gays to straights, druggies to non-druggies, from men to women’s book clubs. I just didn’t see the point in writing a drug memoir that would only be understood by other druggies–reach people! I wish some of the people formulating these lists would do a bit of that as well. Surprise us! I wish they would look outside the usual suspects, because there’s a helluva lot of good books out there that they could be turning people on to. As you said, we don’t need to hear about Franzen’s book for the fiftieth time.
Tiffany, I often feel like I don’t have much ‘exoticism’ cred but I also don’t feel like I need it. What matters is writing a great story. At times, it might seem that the immigrant story is privileged because it stands out more and editors may gravitate to those stories because they stand out from the blur–a blur that is created not because people are writing about the suburban existence but because they may not be writing about the suburban existence with the same energy that can be found in other stories. People latch onto trends and then it seems like those stories are privileged. This is often an illusion. I grew up in the suburbs, often in the Midwest, and just lucked into having Haitian parents to expose me to things I could write about beyond my life. My writing straddles the line where I can write about Haiti or race (which is actually a fraction of my writing), and I can and can also write the kind of stories that take place in rural Michigan or Nebraska or in some vague, American place, and don’t have the characteristics you might find in stories about other places and peoples in the world. The truth is that the writing will be hollow if you try to force yourself to write about something you don’t necessarily want to write about and it’s simplistic to think that you can just throw an “African name” into a story and find some kind of magic formula. That’s not how it works. It comes down to the writing. My prescription is to find those interesting experiences and moments you want to write about and write about them well. Write about them the way no one else can. The only time your writing will fail you is when you try to make it into something it doesn’t want to be. That’s vague but I don’t know enough about your writing to be more specific. I would also gently suggest that it is not quite accurate to think of writing about other cultures as exotic because that positions the stories of these cultures and the people from these cultures within the realm of the Other. It’s exotic to you because it’s different . Your life would likely be “exotic” to people elsewhere. I would also say that in BASS 2011, Caitlin Horrocks’s story takes place in Minnesota, has elements of magical realism, and is an outstanding story. Publishing is a complex beast. We know that. And when you’re not a known quantity, it is overwhelming to think you ever have a chance. As resigned as I am to certain things about publishing I am also bizarrely optimistic and for my sanity’s sake, I choose to believe that somehow, some way, cream eventually rises to the top. Whether that cream is recognized, however, is less of a surety.
Tom, there’s definitely a lot to choose from but I also think that these people have the responsibility to make the time. Surely, someone at the Times could devote two hours a week to finding work from small presses (and not just the big small presses) but the truly small presses. I can definitely see how it might go both ways, finding a place in the literary sphere to fit in when you’re not the kind of white, heterosexual man the establishment favors and where that lack of fit is not recognized by the independent community. When you say that you can’t get recognition from certain segments of the community where you live, though, I am curious by what you mean. Could you elaborate?
This article really helped me to articulate a lot of hazy thoughts I’d been having about the relationship of a writer’s background and originality. Very insightful, and your replies to others’ comments were almost as interesting as the article itself.
The voice of the New York Times best books list seems louder these days thanks to the shrinking and disappearing book reviews in newspapers around the country. I have long since stopped even reading the book reviews in the New York Times, the selection seems so narrow.
Regarding the narrow focus of the demographic about which these “Best of” lists are often centered, I can’t help thinking that this is also related to finding so few women, or people of color, or non-heterosexual writers being published in lit reviews and journals. Two years ago I stopped subscribing to McSweeney’s because so few of the stories in the journal were by anyone who wasn’t a white male.
Oddly enough, some of the books you mentioned liking this year are on my To Be Acquired list (Green Girl, Once Upon a River, and The Chronology of Water).
Roxane, i don’t think i expressed myself well about what you, i think accurately, described as a trend. i wasn’t suggesting that we *should* need “exoticism” cred, nor that one should throw an African name into a story, nor that the whole Othering and exoticization (sheesh, that can’t be a real word! exoticizing?) trend is/was fabulous. i meant more that, as you seem to agree, work may jump out to an editor and readers because it is different a.k.a. “exotic.” i wasn’t talking about Franzen writing about a woman who immigrated to the US, but that woman writing her own story. if well written, it’s more interesting to some editors than the equivalent, well written story by another white dude (if i may Otherize my penis-toting and melatonin-impaired friends for a moment).
by the way, i wasn’t trying to implicate you and your work in any way by mentioning that trend. i wasn’t familiar with you or your work ’til i saw this Facebook link; i had no idea you were of Haitian parentage.
“I would also gently suggest that it is not quite accurate to think of writing about other cultures as exotic because that positions the stories of these cultures and the people from these cultures within the realm of the Other. It’s exotic to you because it’s different . Your life would likely be “exotic†to people elsewhere.”
i agree with much of what you wrote here. best of’s can contain good work but tend to be homogenous and a bit dull because of it. i totally agree with that and wouldn’t want to imply that the othery trend has surpassed the basic New England white guy voice that traditional US literary culture is based upon. it’s not always the subjects and characters that embody it, either; the writers’ *voices* often all sound suspiciously similar, even when they’re striving to be clever or character based. i’ve stopped reading most of it because i felt like it was recycled, excellently crafted but made me go, “Oh yeah, he must’ve gone to Iowa” at the end, rather than feeling fervent and bowled over like i felt at the end of Lidia Y’s memoir.
back to the other Other issue: sure, i exoticize thrilling cultural differences and geographic locations i am not already familiar with as i read about them. i would say that the trend of what Tom calls “druggie” lit is a perfect example (for those who haven’t been immersed in that culture themselves). when i was a teenager and gobbled up those books, there weren’t a bunch of junkies and tweakers in and around my life, nor their causes under my skin or up my nose. hell yeah they were “exotic.”
stories set in India are exotic to me because, hey, i’ve only been to India once, and it was as a guest of upperish-castey people. it would be ridiculous for me to pretend that the trials of Untouchables is something familiar to me from my upbringing in Oregon, the Marshmallow State. i want to read their experiences, or read about them from the POV of someone who lives in their culture, i want to look at photos of them in their “exotic” clothes. i like that we may have universals in common, but despite globalization we are still different. to someone in Outer Mongolia, i would indeed seem Othery. and that is OK. if they are attracted to my story *because* it’s different, works for me! i can’t presume that they’re doing some Lacanian thing on me just because some smart (well educated, white Europeans) people fell in love with that concept last century.
my impression from academia and elsewhere is that i’m supposed to feel ashamed that i’m fascinated by the differences between me and people who have different backgrounds than mine. i do. though Theory might dictate other(ha)wise, i don’t believe this means i’m marginalizing or hoping to subordinate them.
another source of the exotic: i, like everyone else in my age/demographic group (i’m 42) grew up with veritable shiteloads of New Yorky literature. was New York familiar to me? no. i’d argue that the NYC publishing and writing worlds were proudly and endlessly playing up their culture and locality; i and many readers in other places (you know, where we produce “regional” literature) couldn’t help but consider the detectives junkies and society people and jazz players and early 20th century immigrants exotic. that’s what Good American Literature was supposed to be like. lots of us felt like we had to move to NYC to *be* real writers or painters or what-have-you. i did it, too.
“What matters is writing a great story. At times, it might seem that the immigrant story is privileged because it stands out more and editors may gravitate to those stories because they stand out from the blur–a blur that is created not because people are writing about the suburban existence but because they may not be writing about the suburban existence with the same energy that can be found in other stories. People latch onto trends and then it seems like those stories are privileged. This is often an illusion.” or it might be more accurate to say that they *are* privileged — hey if they get in print,, that’s privilege — but only for a short period of trendy time?
“The truth is that the writing will be hollow if you try to force yourself to write about something you don’t necessarily want to write about.” of course! and a bunch of white, middle and upper class, urban and suburban writers write about what they care about. yet, that’s what we’re complaining about in these anthologies. the problem may be partly the insidery and parochial tendencies of publishers/critics/editors/writers. i’d also be interested in seeing stats on writer demographics. readers, too. if 70% of writers turn out to be the cliche i just generalized about (white, upper-middle, etc) then should we berate them for liking stories about that existence? just playing devil’s advocate here.
“I choose to believe that somehow, some way, cream eventually rises to the top. Whether that cream is recognized, however, is less of a surety.” and sometimes it just takes… time. for one thing, in a few decades, the white upper-middle-etc will not be a majority in this country, and perhaps their voices will be more widely seen as unrepresentative of our culture, or of limited representation. in other countries, that occurs: the Irish, for example, produced freaking brilliant literature for a while that was produced by *Anglo*-Irish, and undoubtedly the system favored them. but dang, we’re talking Yeats here! and eventually, the non-Anglo-Irish continued this trend of brilliance and made a world that would favor their own voices.
ok, i write too fast and this probably won’t be the world’s greatest post, though possibly one of its longest. i will stop now.
Roxane you’re right, they should MAKE the time, I guess you just caught me in a forgiving mood yesterday haha. It doesn’t happen often. What we have here in Seattle is little cliques if you will of literary demographics, and each has their own channels of support. There’s The Seattle Times, the traditional paper, which seems to review books by big presses, mostly middle class women and men writers. Then there’s the alternative papers like The Stranger, who seem to review some indy books and lots of books by gays and minorities, including women. I totally understand this, because they are merely reviewing books that their audience will be most likely to read. Whereas I guess if I had to classify myself, in writer terms, I guess I would say something like I’m a “hetero punk existentialist” and I don’t really fit into either of those papers target audience. But that really means nothing and doesn’t have anything to do with my writing, or it shouldn’t. It’s the classifications that bug me. It shouldn’t matter if the writer is rich or poor or gay or straight or male or female. It should always be about the writing, and whether it connects to readers on some human level, no matter what they call themselves.
Tiffany, I definitely didn’t think you were trying to implicate me. I was simply saying I can relate, having grown up in the suburbs and wondered what I could possibly write about that would be interesting.
Tom, thanks for elaborating.
Roxane,
I find that these lists and anthologies are useful mostly for the purpose you have put them to here – to help me (and my friends and my students) to clarify what we consider to be excellent, best, noteworthy, etc. Occasionally, of course, we find work about which we agree with the bestowal of the accolades whole-heartedly.
I wonder if you ever question what appears to be a bit of a throwaway line here: “I have no problem with major presses. If they ever come calling, you better believe I’m going to answer enthusiastically”?
Like you, my so-called career has been supported by small presses and university magazines. So that’s just one reason I hesitate when I consider sending the novel I am finishing now out to the big commercial houses. Is that how I repay the support I’ve received? Can I relinquish my youthful dream of a big NY contract in order to do what seems to fit most closely with my subversive, anti-capitalist beliefs?
That is, I DO actually have a problem with major presses when they are part of one of a very few nearly monopolistic media conglomerates who hold a scary big amount of power over what and how books are sold and read and reviewed and touted.
Fabulous column! Yet another reason why so often when I think Roxane Gay I think excellence.
Valerie, that’s a good question. It’s not a throwaway line. I’m not really subversive or anti-capitalist though I am bleedingly liberal. I am certainly against the system of unchecked capitalism we are currently dealing with but I don’t think publishing a book with a mainstream press contradicts that. Writers who crossover repay the support they’ve received by smaller presses by getting the good word out through their work in the bigger presses. I’ve seen few crossover writers who have forgotten where they started. Bonnie Jo Campbell comes to mind. Once upon a River came out from Norton. American Salvage came out from Wayne State University Press, and she shares that information, openly. Ultimately, each writer should do what they feel is best for their career. My parents want to see my book on a display and Barnes & Noble and I’m going to do my damndest to make that happen for them.
In theory I agree with you, but I think an anthology or book list that was so self-conscious about diversity of voices and forms would be obviously an anthology or book list that was self-consciously focused on alternative voice and and forms! It’s cultural politics, awkward and dividing, the opposite of integration, it’s alienating. The fact is, the NYT *is* for upper middle class white people – ever read the Style section? It’s mainstream America, someone’s got to do it, the NYTBR is the only one left. Apparently it’s become a position so unpopular there is only one national book review magazine left, so there is a rather large audience for it.
Steve, I have to disagree. I don’t think it is cultural politics to ask the primary venue for reviewing books to acknowledge that there is excellent writing beyond the mainstream. I’m suggesting that these influential arbiters of excellence broaden their literary horizons. The mainstream got to be the mainstream because someone deemed it such. I read the NYT every day. Sure, they love to talk about rich people stuff (flying kids to summer camp, a week in fashion, etc). It’s amusing and all but that doesn’t mean they can neglect vast swaths of literature. Please.
Roxane, this is a great article. Thanks for being on the front line of alternative writers and indie presses and all things so relevant to life!!! I love you for this and for so much more.
First, let me remind everyone that “Freedom” took place largely in “exotic” Minnesota and D.C., not South America. Second, on the list of unpopular topics, I’m writing an annotated bibliography of slave narratives to include in my book on slavery and Ben Franklin, so Ms. Gay, send them all to me! (10008 National Blvd., No. 284, Los Angeles, CA 90034).
Hi Roxane –
If you don’t like the NYT’s list, check out http://www.largeheartedboy.com/blog/archive/2011/11/online_best_of_7.html.
More than 500 2011 best books of the year lists to choose from so far. This is the age of the internet. It’s a bit old-fashioned to complain about a single list, powerful though it may be. For anyone with access to the net and a concern that the NYT offers too homogeneous a selection, alternatives are just a link away!
Andy, I’m well aware of Large Hearted Boy’s list of lists. It’s a great resource. The fact that other lists exist is really beside the point. Furthermore, I’m not “complaining” about a single list. I complain on my blog. The reality is that the Times creates THE list. This is not to diminish the relevance of other lists but merely to point out that the paper of record matters a whole hell of a lot and when they ignore whole swaths of literature, that’s a problem. The kinds of work I want to see at least acknowledged deserve more than to simply reside on alternative lists.
Hi Roxane –
Point taken.
So why is the NYT so mainstream and tepid in its choices? Over at Gawker (http://gawker.com/239418/secret-workings-of-times-book-review-exposed), they explain how a book makes the cut to get reviewed (and thus to be a contender for the year-end list):
“How do those people decide what gets reviewed and what doesn’t? It begins with the clerk, who goes through the pile of 750-1000 advance manuscripts that the office receives each week—and then immediately tosses all the self-help books, reference guides, and travel manuals. The remaining galleys are taken to Tanenhaus’s office, and approximately once a week, Dwight Garner and Robert Harris go in there to divide them up. An “additional winnowing” takes place at this stage, which leaves each of the six preview editors with about 25 books to go through. Gewen said he spends at least a half hour with each one, chooses four or five, and discards the rest. He makes a note about every reject, stating a reason for why it didn’t make the cut. One of the comments he leaves most frequently, he said, is “too narrow for us.” Another is “workmanlike.”
***
What the article doesn’t say is whether than weekly pool of 1000 books is mainly from major publishers. I can imagine that there is a built-in bias. If the Times only reviews a dozen or less books a week, they don’t want to miss any “major” book. And by definition the major publishers are publishing the majority of books dropped off at the Times office. The result is what you would expect: The Establishment Paper reviewing Establishment Authors from Establishment Publishing Houses. Unless the NYT gets a new book editor that specifically stresses alternative presses, etc. that trend will continue.
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