Posts Tagged ‘emily gould’

The recent Jonathan Franzen-induced debacle of sexism in the world of literary criticism has sparked many responses. The Internet seems to vibrate with disputes pitting literary fiction against commercial fiction in a contemporary class war.

The Huffington Post interview given by Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner contains many noteworthy observations about how books are sold, marketed, reviewed, and digested by the public. The type of prejudice Picoult and Weiner describe is real; women writers often get corralled into various sub-genres of literature such as commercial literature, chick lit, or pop fiction while male writers are often deemed “literary.” As someone who is dedicated to writing and understanding writing myself, I have often wondered why when I do read New York Times pieces highlighting strong literary fiction, the book is more times than not written by, as Weiner describes, “white guys living in Brooklyn or Manhattan, white guys who either have MFAs or teach at MFA programs.”

However, Picoult and Weiner make no mention of quality writing when commenting on what is deserving of literary criticism.

Picoult and Weiner assert that commercial fiction should be given more literary acknowledgment by major publications because it appeals to the masses. Picoult says:

Because historically the books that have persevered in our culture and in our memories and our hearts were not the literary fiction of the day, but the popular fiction of the day. Think about Jane Austen. Think about Charles Dickens. Think about Shakespeare. They were popular authors. They were writing for the masses.

Austen and Dickens absolutely had mass appeal, and of course, there will forever be the struggling high school sophomore who realizes amidst Great Expectations that Dickens got paid by the word. However, it should be noted what Dickens did with those words — that is, he formed some of the strongest, most resilient literature in the English language. To say that Shakespeare “persevered in our culture” because he wrote for the masses is to deny the enduring nature of his themes and the utter brilliance of his craft. That’s why he’s still remembered nearly 400 hundred years after his death and the only people who remember Jacqueline Susan 40 years later are those who first recall the biopic starring Bette Midler.

Collectively, we have now arrived at a time in literature, and even our culture, in which popularity and quality have completely diverged. There is the occasional overlap but only individual cases, especially in writing, to speak of. Popularity alone can no longer serve as a testament to strong, well-written, reflective literature. If it did, He’s Just Not That Into You could be considered a classic or “The Real Housewives” could be deemed a powerful drama. Popular identification with a work does not automatically affirm a piece as poignant or well-crafted.

What has yet to be said in this debate is that, regardless of sex or race, commercial books are simply not on par with literary fiction when it comes to producing provocative writing. The recognized style of commercial books is cheaper, less authentic, more formulaic, and more predictable, known for comfortable endings and neatly packaged characters that function more as cartoons than representations of actual people. When it comes down to fiction writing — solid, genuine fiction writing — that attempts to push boundaries and say something unique about our nature or the way we live, commercial lit doesn’t have that kind of reach. If it did, it would be called literary fiction.

Commercial books do not deserve serious critique because, generally, the writing does not merit it.

Clearly not everyone reads fiction looking for powerful imagery, subtle metaphor, innovative sentence structure, or complex characters. Many readers like to kick back on their vacations and train rides with something that can be more easily consumed and, for those reasons, commercial lit belongs on the designated shelves where it can be found, enjoyed, and celebrated by its consumers, not in The New York Times book review.

The question I feel that should be asked in the literary community in lieu of this sexist uproar is not why are commercial books not being reviewed seriously, but why are there so few prominent women writers of literary fiction?

Earlier this summer, I read a piece in The New York Times books section entitled “Bright Young Things.” It highlighted two new books by young writers Sloane Crosley and Emily Gould. Being a young female writer myself, I was delighted to see two women being featured in such a prominent way. Yet, I found both books to be rather lackluster and, in the end, I wondered why these two writers, who were being showcased by The New York Times as “bright young” female writers of today, were not as strong as I had hoped.

With the exception of a few female literary giants who are regulars in The New Yorker and The New York Times, it seems that even when a big publication does take note of a compelling female voice, she isn’t nearly as strong a writer as her male colleagues.

It concerns me to see endless profiles of “white guys living in Brooklyn or Manhattan,” who do tackle family, love, and heartbreak with startling prose while many women contemporaries communicate the same themes superficially.

Where is the new biting Lorrie Moore of this generation? The up-and-coming Sigrid Nunez of today? The next Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie? Another young Lydia Davis?

They’re certainly not on the “New Releases” table in Barnes & Noble nor are they being profiled in The New York Times. And although there is the slight possibility that this mythical Moore-Nunez hybrid is merely biding her time on the chick lit shelves, cashing in her royalty checks while she thinks up her own rendition of Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, I highly doubt it.

Read this entry on The Huffington Post.

Emily Gould’s book of personal essays, And the Heart Says Whatever, named after a Fleetwood Mac lyric, chronicles her post-collegiate life in 21st century America. From hazy high school memories in her hometown of Spring Field, Maryland, to her admittance to Kenyon College in Ohio, and finally to New York City — where Gould assumes the role of bartender, editorial assistant, and Gawker editor.

From the beginning, Gould establishes a voice of disheartened melancholy. Having been denied to all colleges she hoped to attend — a shock considering she deems herself a star pupil –  she finds herself between endless rows of corn at Kenyon College,  a back-up school she had never even visited, let alone planned on attending. She dates around and steers clear of Kenyon’s Freddy Frat culture, eventually “dropping out” by way of study abroad to the New School.

Gould works at various jobs she despises, many of which involve her serving overpriced something-or-other and trying to keep a straight face when customers react unpleasantly. She takes her first “grown-up” job at a publishing house, delighted at first by the adulthood markers of a desk, a phone, and paperweights. Slowly, however, she begins to see books as the commodity her day job requires — a depressing realization for an English major. Her many hours pushing paper, though, afford her ample time to peruse Gawker at her desk and she quickly becomes obsessed with the site; a perfect opportunity arises when the editor leaves, allowing her to interview for the position.

Among Gould’s literary pursuits is her troubled relationship with her boyfriend of six years. Gould recalls their fights over infidelity, drug use, and band practice between moments of reflection on her bed, offering strained, seemingly scripted quotes from their fights in an effort to transport the reader.

Gould has produced a narrative with which anyone, particularly any young woman, who has ventured out to make a New York life can identify with and understand: the thankless jobs, the horrible apartments, the ill-advised adoption of a pet, depression, and a general feeling of post-college angst. However, the weakness of And The Heart Says Whatever lies in Gould’s inability to write about any of these experiences with originality or depth. The nondescript nature of the book, as reflected in the title, creates a lukewarm text that could serve as anyone’s story, whether that be the authoress in question, or any other twenty-something young woman you might run into on the G line. Gould’s observations of her experiences are subtle, but not deeply expressed.

She speaks often from a place of tired dejection — a desire to be special, noticed, and talented that has long since deflated in late night cabs, Williamsburg-bound subway cars, and dive bars. And although Gould’s exhausted narrative may be a stylistic choice, her fatigued retelling still lacks the poignancy to create a truly insightful look at being young, broke, and female in New York.

Standing out from the ten tepid essays in And The Heart Says Whatever is one that shows a little more promise than the others. In “Claudine,” Gould recalls an on-again off-again friendship with a girl she knew from junior high school. Gould lovingly recalls their “subculture of two” as she explores, in retrospect, the delicate and tenuous nature that binds the two eleven-year-old girls together. She writes of sharing mixed tapes and music preferences, considering one another “cool” before Claudine begins to drift into even cooler circles. Gould balances the shifting time-line well as their relationship becomes strained into adulthood; both girls become roommates in New York and eventually drift apart.

“Claudine” carries Gould’s melancholy narrative a bit farther than the other essays, primarily because within her indifferent tone is a tinge of sympathy that comes across as artfully restrained. Gould’s distant voice works well in recalling this particular relationship, as her memories fuse with the disappointment of losing someone she once knew.

All in all, And The Heart Says Whatever is a perfunctory collection of essays about young adulthood with one unlikely gem among a wash of mediocrity.

To read more about Emily Gould, click here.