There was a time when I read Classics and many other genres – historical fiction, literary, mysteries, romance etc etc. I still read those genres, with a one strong caveat, that they are not written by new age authors, modern living authors. This is true for most except for a few exceptions like Olga Tokarczuk, Louise Erdrich, Bonnie Garmus and to a very limited extent Richard Osman who still understand the value of a good story instead of a bestseller!

And herein I think lies the problem of modern storytelling. The modern storytelling does very little storytelling. I do realise that there is only limited number of innovative stories one can tell, but Madam Bovary is very different from Anna Karenina and both these books are very different from The Awakening. All three books were written within the span of same 50 years, with the common themes of infidelity, death and destruction of the home and hearth and yet, not one reader, will say if you have read one, you have  read all for these three novels. I dislike the unidimensional narrative of women trapped in  “loveless marriage”, giving into the charms of a younger man only to commit suicide will  be the first to acknowledge that the approach, language and the characters add nuanced layer to each  of  the three novels, distinguishing each from the other, making readers prefer one over the other. I personally think of think of Anna Karenina as one of the best classics ever, though cannot abide by either Madame Bovary or The Awakening. The core plot is not the  problem, it is everything else.

Lately  when going through another of my re-reading Georgette Heyer’s Regency romance phases, with a mind and mood open to romance novels, I found a post on of the Bookstagrammer about a modern author and her romance books. This particular bookstagrammer was someone whom I trusted, who had read and reviewed many classics and always shared insightful thoughts about them. A true book reader instead of the thousands who congest our social media with zero idea about books or reading and put out rubbish everyday based on Chat GPT summary and the book blurb. She  wrote a glowing recommendation about Book Lovers my Emily Henry, emphasising the core of the book as the relationship between the two sister, convincing me to attempt to read a new author. I am sure there are many readers who swear by Ms. Henry’s work and derive immense joy out of them, but to me she seemed to write books  straight out of Harlequin Romances, only worse. Her Book Lovers was clichéd in the worst sense; protagonists  who dislike each other before turning to lovers is old as hill, Shakespeare used it, Jane Austen used it & turned into a cult classic and Ms. Heyer’s books are littered with such leads. The plot again is not the problem; the problem is the lack of imagination in presenting it, the beaten to death dialogues and the unnecessary 350+ pages to tell a story that could have said just as much in 200 pages. There is a sister and there an effort to display their but it was clearly written to emphasise the  “poor little heroine syndrome” – the tough independent girl, who actually needs to be taken care off by the strong, silent type – the male lead. Also the sister relationship, was shallow, without any spark of real emotional connection and at some level seemed toxic instead of  heart tugging.

But this is not just about Ms. Henry or her Book. Books which claim to be literary are filled with gratuitous violence that is expected to showcase the trauma of the protagonists, but are purely sensational without any humane insight. If the equal amount of space given to violence was given to the emotions and the transformations within the heart and mind of the characters, that would be a powerful narrative if nothing else; but the focus somehow is always on violence. Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor is an example of exactly this. It has been cried up as a modern classic , but her novel is nothing but a long litany of violence and abusive language. I understand that her novel is set among the poorest of poor South America, folks with little or no life chances and such stories are uncomfortable but very  important read. But frankly this work seemed to be written for the shock value alone with a very flat portrayal of every possible stereotype. Her attempt at writing the novel without any page breaks or paragraphs seemed gimmicky, again pointing towards the value of bestseller over best writing. For reference, I would like to mention the beautiful, lyrical and deeply emotional trilogy, The Songs of the Road by Bibhutibushan Bandyopadhyay, especially  Book 1. Mr. Bandyopadhyay wrote nearly 100  years  before Ms. Melchor of back breaking, soul crushing poverty, narrated from the point of view of two siblings capturing every deprivation, pain and suffering that comes in the wake of destitution. But his narrative is not only  about poverty, but about people, circumstances and choices, where like life everything is multi-layered and complex. Not once however, is there any abusive  language, any contrivance and no pointless, exhaustively descriptive violence, that consume page after page.

Even books with immense promise and  beauty, like The Love Songs of  W.E.B. Du Bois by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers, which I loved with its multigenerational narrative and strong nuanced characters gives into the more  popular conventions. This novel had so many things that it got right –  the very powerful plot that interwove with it the history of the Indigenous people  and African American people, their repression, their struggle, strength and grief. Then the absolutely magnificent prose that seared through the pages  into the reader’s heart and near perfect research added another layer to this book. And yet despite its very original narrative, the book spiralled into the usual drugs-sex-death triangle in the end. Again this is a  reality, but this book was already conveying the powerful reality of race, identity and oppression that it had no need to use the triage of drugs, sex and death in our present world to make the point. Why did she do it? Maybe she thought that the present is the result of the past which it is, but I also feel, some of those “cutting edge” themes are what sells the books.

Today every book written by a contemporary author has a cover blazing with such items like Sunday Times Bestseller, The New York Times Best Seller, the selection of the month for Resse Whiterspoon Book club or Oprah Book club or some other such announcement to convince the reader, that this book is the book. Every review talks about how this is the story of our times, capturing whatever genre it is supposed  to capture, making it the most  important read of the month/year/decade.  This is followed by unaccountable number book signing events, media appearances and social media influencers raving about a book that may not really merit so much of hype. It’s a capitalist circus, like everything else, churn out more, churn out fast and churn out what is trending. No plots, no contemplations, no truths and of course no thoughtful prose; just whatever is in and trending and can be rehashed again and again.  

The irony or rather the tragedy is despite such bad writing, book publishing remains one of the most profitable industries as people keep buying these books. I am not a book snob, I think reading is deeply personal and how I read something is very different from someone else. I do not judge if you read a John Grisham or a Sidney Sheldon or any other author not considered classic or literary. I  am all for reading for pure entertainment and hence my Richard Osman preferences. But I am not sure if  most of these books are entertaining ; they are just repetitive, swap the names and locations and it is all the same. There is no attempt to portray something honest and purposeful or let along a clean good plot; just some sensational, gimmicky phrases or settings that attempt to grab the book buyer’s attention without any authenticity. But clearly these very low standards are working and money is pouring in for everyone involved.

I am all for writers and artists being rich and living a good life – good art needs money to sustain itself and I can think of a worthier cause besides education and health where funds should be liberally directed. But this money needs to reach the good art instead of the  immensely forgettable ones on  display everywhere. I am sure that there are honest authors out there, writing with grit and imagination, trying to tell a good story;  who are not playing special guest to some random chat show to promote the book or customising their story to sign the next Hollywood deal. But how does the focus get directed to these rare mortals and  their brilliant creations among the cacophony of marketing blitz and the hyping of sub-par books through money and media. In the end, the choice I feel lies with the reader – what do we reach for on the shelves of the bookstore and what do we review?  At one end of the  spectrum, there are transformative experiences which include both joyful entertainment or things that make one think, and at the other end,  just something for the Instagram to get followers or add to the bookshelves at home for the aesthetics. What do we want from our books?