I had the wonderful opportunity to visit the Decatur Branch of the Dekalb County Library last night to hear Susan Vreeland read selections from her novels at an event sponsored by the Georgia Center for the Book. She is a wonderful reader. Not all writers are. She is a retired English teacher — a 30-year veteran of the classroom. When she signed my books, I told her we had that in common, and she said, “Good for you!” She encouraged me to check out the teacher’s guides she wrote for her novels at her website. After I left, I remembered that her books were published under the aegis of Penguin-Putnam. I should have mentioned the Beowulf teacher’s guide I wrote. I hate when I get tongue-tied and stupid around authors.

I reviewed her bestseller Girl in Hyacinth Blue not long ago, and I am really looking forward to Life Studies, a collection of short stories in which Vreeland speculates over “[w]hat else went on in great artists’ lives beside their painting [and] [w]hat goes on in ours as a result of art?”

Okay. I’m coming clean. I’ve become a literary snob. It’s getting in the way of my enjoyment of Lalita Tademy’s family history saga Cane River, but that’s something I’ll probably explain in more detail once I finish and review the book.

I used to read romance novels. I really did. I’m not sure I can read another one. It isn’t that they aren’t fun. They are. But if we’re truly honest, we’ll admit to ourselves that they’re literary junk food. I mean, I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to have Nora Roberts’ career. I’m not an idiot. But I wonder if she won’t be as forgotten as her forbears — Barbara Cartland is slipping away into the mists, the old gal.

Why have I become a literary snob? Well, I think it is due in part to Allconsuming.net, a website which tracks book discussion in weblogs as well as giving bloggers a way to identify which books they are reading for their readers. If you scroll down a bit and look at the sidebar on the right, you’ll see I’m currently reading the aforementioned Cane River and Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Why am I reading this? I mean, the only people who read this book are those hapless souls forced prodded and cajoled into reading by sadistic well-meaning English teachers? Nah. I guess not. I guess it started with The Poisonwood Bible, which I reviewed not long ago. I know I read Heart of Darkness in college — British Literature from 1700 to the Present (a sophomore lit. course). I strolled to the classroom next door and asked Randal if he had read The Poisonwood Bible. He had not. So I recommended it enthusiastically. Then I asked him if he teaches Heart of Darkness. He said, yes, he did. I mentioned I thought the books were similar. He reminded me that Heart of Darkness is not merely a tale about the horrors of colonialism, but the true evil of mankind laid bare. And I said something else, and Randal disagreed. I started feeling outgunned, because it had been around 14 years since I read the book, and I didn’t remember details like he did. I decided I’d better read it again. I remembered hating it 14 years ago. I have had difficulty putting it down since I borrowed from Randal this morning. Man. How could I have hated this book?

I guess it boils down to this: I am 33. I’m not 19. In the last five years or so, with so many works of literature under my belt, my analysis skills seem to be much sharper. Age and maturity have taught me what to pull out of a book. It’s funny, because when I was 25, I was having a conversation with a classmate (I was a senior in college after quitting for three years when Sarah was born, then going back). This classmate was 30. I remarked at some point upon how well-read he was. He said, in what I thought at the time was a very exasperated tone, “I’m also a lot older than you.” Well, “a lot” is stretching things. But there is definitely something about being over 30 that makes me look at reading and books differently. I guess not everyone feels this way. My mom is in her 50s and happily reading mysteries. She inhales books. I owe my love of reading to her example.

I am thinking as I write, trying to put my finger on what’s different. I came to the conclusion that I have become a literary snob for a few reasons: 1) I want to learn things only Literature with a capital L can teach me; 2) I have had to read so many books — some classics — that I hadn’t yet read in preparation to teach them; and 3) I’ve come to the conclusion that life is too short to waste on bad writing. There are some really good books out there.

I remarked to Steve the other day, in reference to The Poisonwood Bible, that it is funny how inocuous books seem: a pretty jacket, a catchy title — you little suspect that reading the pages might change your life.

I have been scouring Wikipedia’s articles about the Congo. I even added references to the Further Reading section of this article about the History of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Let me underscore, capitalize, and repeat to anyone who has ever known me: I have never, ever wanted to go to Africa. I just had no interest. In fact, sometimes it bothered me that I had no interest in Africa. But since I read The Poisonwood Bible, I am fascinated by this country formerly known as Zaire. I look for it on globes and maps when I am out — ah, yes, that one is recent because it’s not labeled Zaire except in parentheses under the restored if somewhat altered title THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO to distinguish it from the Republic of the Congo. The former was colonized by Belgium and known then as “the Belgian Congo” and the latter colonized by the French and known as “the French Congo.”

I stand so my face is about three inches from the map so I can read all the tiny print, and I trace my finger down the Congo River, trying to figure out where Kingsolver’s village of Kilanga might be. Just like Charlie Marlow, who recalls looking at “blank” spaces on the map:

But there was one yet — the biggest — the most blank, so to speak — that I had a hankering after.

True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It has ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery — a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window it fascinated me as a snake would a bird — a silly little bird.

Yes, I thought when I read that, I know what you mean, Marlow. Me too. When I was a girl, Zaire was a blank space on a map, far away, with funny-sounding cities. Then when I was older, it was the home of poverty, children with swollen bellies, and the most horrible pestilences known to man — AIDS and Ebola. Now when I look at the map, I see something more familiar. I think of the destruction wrought there in the name of diamonds and ivory as well as well-meaning missionaries and doctors. It’s real, and I can almost smell it. I am scared to go, but I almost want to see it, too.

I guess that’s the sort of place literary snobbery can take you.

You know, two of my book reviews for Blogcritics have been chosen for Advance.net, which I guess means they are posted on some newspaper sites. You can read them here. They are slightly different from the ones posted here — I take out some of the more personal comments.

So I’m late in discovering that Anne Rice went postal on her reviewers at Amazon for Blood Canticle. Since you have to scroll down to find her review, I’ll save you some time. Here it is, in its entirety, following a five-star rating for her own book:

Seldom do I really answer those who criticize my work. In fact, the entire development of my career has been fueled by my ability to ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism as I realize my dreams and my goals. However there is something compelling about Amazon’s willingness to publish just about anything, and the sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you’ve said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul. Also I use and enjoy Amazon and I do read the reviews of other people’s books in many fields. In sum, I believe in what happens here. And so, I speak. First off, let me say that this is addressed only to some of you, who have posted outrageously negative comments here, and not to all. You are interrogating this text from the wrong perspective. Indeed, you aren’t even reading it. You are projecting your own limitations on it. And you are giving a whole new meaning to the words “wide readership.” And you have strained my Dickensean principles to the max. I’m justifiably proud of being read by intellectual giants and waitresses in trailer parks,in fact, I love it, but who in the world are you? Now to the book. Allow me to point out: nowhere in this text are you told that this is the last of the chronicles, nowhere are you promised curtain calls or a finale, nowhere are you told there will be a wrap-up of all the earlier material. The text tells you exactly what to expect. And it warns you specifically that if you did not enjoy Memnoch the Devil, you may not enjoy this book. This book is by and about a hero whom many of you have already rejected. And he tells you that you are likely to reject him again. And this book is most certainly written — every word of it — by me. If and when I can’t write a book on my own, you’ll know about it. And no, I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself. I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me, and I will never relinquish that status. For me, novel writing is a virtuoso performance. It is not a collaborative art. Back to the novel itself: the character who tells the tale is my Lestat. I was with him more closely than I have ever been in this novel; his voice was as powerful for me as I’ve ever heard it. I experienced break through after break through as I walked with him, moved with him, saw through his eyes. What I ask of Lestat, Lestat unfailingly gives. For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels — the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp’s party — and the late night foray into the slums –stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book. You don’t get all this? Fine. But I experienced an intimacy with the character in those scenes that shattered all prior restraints, and when one is writing one does have to continuously and courageously fight a destructive tendency to inhibition and restraint. Getting really close to the subject matter is the achievement of only great art. Now, if it doesn’t appeal to you, fine. You don’t enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I’ll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I’m answering you, but for what it’s worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you who post anonymously (and perhaps repeatedly?) and how glad I am that this book is the last one in a series that has invited your hateful and ugly responses. Now, to return to the narrative in question: Lestat’s wanting to be a saint is a vision larded through and through with his characteristic vanity. It connects perfectly with his earlier ambitions to be an actor in Paris, a rock star in the modern age. If you can’t see that, you aren’t reading my work. In his conversation with the Pope he makes observations on the times which are in continuity with his observations on the late twentieth century in The Vampire Lestat, and in continuity with Marius’ observations in that book and later in Queen of the Damned. The state of the world has always been an important theme in the chronicles. Lestat’s comments matter. Every word he speaks is part of the achievement of this book. That Lestat renounced this saintly ambition within a matter of pages is plain enough for you to see. That he reverts to his old self is obvious, and that he intends to complete the tale of Blackwood Farm is also quite clear. There are many other themes and patterns in this work that I might mention — the interplay between St.Juan Diago and Lestat, the invisible creature who doesn’t “exist” in the eyes of the world is a case in point. There is also the theme of the snare of Blackwood Farm, the place where a human existence becomes so beguiling that Lestat relinquishes his power as if to a spell. The entire relationship between Lestat and Uncle Julien is carefully worked out. But I leave it to readers to discover how this complex and intricate novel establishes itself within a unique, if not unrivalled series of book. There are things to be said. And there is pleasure to be had. And readers will say wonderful things about Blood Canticle and they already are. There are readers out there and plenty of them who cherish the individuality of each of the chronicles which you so flippantly condemn. They can and do talk circles around you. And I am warmed by their response. Their letters, the papers they write in school, our face to face exchanges on the road — these things sustain me when I read the utter trash that you post. But I feel I have said enough. If this reaches one reader who is curious about my work and shocked by the ugly reviews here, I’ve served my goals. And Yo, you dude, the slang police! Lestat talks like I do. He always has and he always will. You really wouldn’t much like being around either one of us. And you don’t have to be. If any of you want to say anything about all this by all means Email me at Anneobrienrice@mac.com. And if you want your money back for the book, send it to 1239 First Street, New Orleans, La, 70130. I’m not a coward about my real name or where I live. And yes, the Chronicles are no more! Thank God!

What I have to say about all that was perfectly encapsulated by Sean Murphy, a member of Comicon.com Panels:

And no, I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself. I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me, and I will never relinquish that status. For me, novel writing is a virtuoso performance. It is not a collaborative art.

I think this is both the most telling and most unfortunate part of her little diatribe. If there was ever a writer who needs the attention of an editor, she’s it. Almost every writer I’ve really liked has admitted to being helped by a good editor. I think it’s hurt the work of Rice and other authors who’ve gotten mega-big, such as Stephen King, that the publishers know that anything they write will sell, so there’s no need to have an editor spend time with their manuscripts. And the fatter the page count, the more they can charge for the book anyway, regardless of whether or not the book would be better with some judicious trimming. I think that’s why Rice, King, and writers of similar status all seem to be much better at the beginning of their careers: they still have people working with them at that stage.

Obviously, Ann Rice has an incredibly swelled head and is of the belief that no improvement on her work is possible. If she got over that, she might be worth reading again.

I very much enjoyed Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat. After that, my appreciation of her writing has been spotty at best. Frankly, Sean Murphy nailed it. “If there was ever a writer who needs the attention of an editor, she’s it.” As a writer, I resent the idea she presents that editing is in some way a distortion of one’s work. That’s patently ridiculous. Her work is suffering badly in want of an editor. She often gets lost in her political agenda. Her descriptions, while lavish and breathtaking in her early works, have degenerated into this wordy, mucked-up mire that seems endless. Her characters have unnatural dialogue. And I’m sorry, when Lestat drank blood from Christ in Memnoch the Devil, I pitched the sorry book across the room. Besides the fact that it offended my religious sensibilities, it was just so damned… cheesy. I wish I could think of a better word. Maybe I need an editor.

There is nothing wrong with a good editor. A good editor can help a writer polish, perfect, and present a work. What a writer needs to do, and fairly early on in his/her career, is adopt a tough skin. You’d think Anne Rice would have a hide of leather by now, based on her recent reviews. One must be able to accept constructive criticism. That’s what editing is all about. It is not a distortion of one’s art. If she’s done much polishing of what she’s written, I’ll be a painted baboon, and you can quote me on that. To be fair, she might have a different dictionary, and her definition of polishing might be much different from mine (/sarcasm). I think she should have let well enough alone and resisted the urge to “fight back” against criticism. What does she really care? She has legions of rabid fans who will buy whatever crap she issues. She’s rich. She’s famous.

I think Neil Gaiman said it well in his own blog:

I think that unless a reviewer gets their facts completely wrong, the author should shut up (and even then, the author should probably let it go)…

I suspect that most authors don’t really want criticism, not even constructive criticism. They want straight-out, unabashed, unashamed, fulsome, informed, naked praise, arriving by the shipload every fifteen minutes or so. Unfortunately an Amazon.com reviews page for one of the author’s books is the wrong place to go looking for this. Probably best just not to look…

When you publish a book — when you make art — people are free to say what they want about it. You can’t tell people they liked a book they didn’t like, and there is, in the end, no arguing with personal taste. Different people like different things. Best to move on and make good art as best you can, instead of arguing.

I think Anne Rice going on Amazon and lambasting her critics was undoubtedly a very brave and satisfying thing for her to do, was every bit as sensible as kicking a tar baby, and, if ever I do something like that, please shoot me.

Indeed.

Should you care to read Anne’s personal response to the controversy, you can do so here. Despite what she says, you can still find her review of Blood Canticle, all five stars of it, at Amazon. You just have to hunt for a while. That is exactly where I found the quoted passage above.

The Toronto Star also covered the story.

And finally, Anne, if you ever happen across this little section of the WWW — it’s not “break through,” it’s “breakthrough.” One word. You meant to use it as a noun, and it’s only two words when used as a verb, meaning “to make a breakthrough.” About that editor…

Update, 10/13/04, 7:41 P.M.: Read more about the controversy in this New York Times article (registration required).