There was a time, back when I first started blogging, where
the bulk of my interactions were with fellow writers. We were united by a
common calling. The need to get our words ‘out there’.
We thrived off the affirmation we’d receive from one another.
Sometimes I’d find myself wondering
whether I’d merely fallen into a giant sycophantic cesspool, where we’d all
languish, ‘to infinity and beyond’. Each day, blog hopping, offering words of encouragement
for pieces, that, in retrospect, weren’t all very good at all. I’m pretty sure
the same could be said of my own offerings at the time, novice wannabe writer
that I was (now I’m merely a wannabe writer ‘novice’ having been discarded
after the 8th year).
The world of the ‘published author’ seemed an impossible
fantasy. I read things like: When you
have collected enough rejection letters to wallpaper a toilet, know that your
big break is nigh.
When ‘they’ said I’d need a thick skin to be a writer, 'they' weren’t kidding.
Rejection is never easy. Having your writing rejected, often
that comes cross as someone saying you aren’t good enough. Not just your writing.
You. And that hurts. Regardless.
And then Fifty Shades of Trite Shite happened. And the author found herself an instant
millionaire. I resisted the ‘bestseller’ hype, because often I’ve found
bestsellers to grind inharmoniously against my notion of what a good book ought
to be.
But when I read that the author was raking in 10.6 mil a
week, I thought, “well, so many people can’t be wrong”.
E-books were sent my way by a kindly soul and I embarked on
a journey that would leave me, quite frankly, disgusted by what passes for ‘riveting’
in our society.
I was also left reeling; wondering whether feminism had been
a figment of our collective imaginations.
Anastasia (oh my, it’s a bloody fairytale!) is your typical,
clutzy, oh-I-don't-think-I'm-beautiful-enough girl who catches the attention of the
severely mentally damaged, but dropdead may-I-please-climb-into-your-bed-and-stay-there Christian (swoon? More like puke!) who happens to be a millionaire
with a penchant for cuffs, whips, canes, belts and floggers.
Ana quite enjoys this, virgin though she was on meeting him.
He’s a controlling demon, but that’s a non-issue. I mean, he's handsome, isn't he and also, he’s filthy rich. That makes everything okay, no? I thought as much. Hmph!
And women (What the hell?!) are lapping this up and calling
it every woman’s fantasy.
Right now, I’m thankful I’m not every woman.
I could have forgiven the lack of plot and quite frankly,
even the Mills and Boonesque sexual orgies (no, wait! Surely this is more
really-lousy-porn-paperback styled?) had the writing been orgasmic.
But it wasn’t. If
anything, it was unimaginative, clichéd and a waste of trees and ink.
Now I'm beginning to wonder. When a publisher approves of what you've written and wants to publish you, does that really mean that you've penned a winning
book or merely that you’ve managed to squeeze enough kinky sex into the book, to justify the mass murder of trees. One wonders why the greenie beanies haven't taken up the cudgels against this travesty of justice yet. Maybe they should take up a flogger? One really does wonder.
But there are deeper underlying issues revealed by Fifty Shades' runaway success.
- We've totally and completely lost the plot when it comes to writing. For me, who's just written The End on a manuscript that gave me nightmares, that's worrying.
- Are we really that shallow? That blinded by the bling and the jets and the 'oh my's' that we fail to see how horribly hollow and empty her offering really was? Mc Donald's in words. Nuff said.
- As women, have we so little faith in our strength that we laud a work that reduces women to panting orgasm-greedy beings who want to be tied to beds and punished with violent sex every time they set a foot wrong? And then have the temerity to say they've enjoyed the punishing sex?
- Are we so ready to relinquish our hard-won gains in contemporary society and just hand everything to men, even when we're working beside them actively contributing to the upliftment of society?
It grieves me that people will splurge on these books which contribute nothing positive to our lives, yet hold back when it comes to supporting the work of decent hardworking writers.
That brings me to another bugbear. 'Our people's' attitude towards books. But that's a rant for another day. Another time.
Also, don’t ask how the series ended. I could only
handle that much holy-cow-holy-shit-wow-oh-my.
Like a wise man once said: Who writes like that!
