I recently read an article criticising, well, critics, for labelling Liane Moriarty’s books as “best selling fluff.” To be honest, I was surprised that Moriarty’s work was even considered fluff. I’ve only read Big Little Lies (pre-miniseries) and I really loved it. The book dealt with some very serious topics, in what I thought was a clever, sensitive and entertaining way. Though the plot is framed by a murder that’s not what the crux of the novel is. It’s about women, friendship and motherhood. It touches on domestic violence and bullying in a very realistic way. It’s a best-seller yes. But it’s hardly what I would consider “fluff.”
So why are the critics hating on Moriarty?
Well for one thing, Moriarty writes commercial fiction. *Gasp*. I say this tongue in cheek of course, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with CF. It’s my preferred genre to read, and it’s what I hope to be published in someday soon.The problem is that it seems literary critics think CF isn’t worthy of the time of day it’s given. According to a great number of articles and reviews, it seems that commercial fiction is synonymous with simple sentence structure, poor prose and a lack of seriousness.
On the other hand, literary fiction is said to be the opposite of all of the above. It is serious. Its words are carefully selected and arranged into sentences that read like poetry and make the reader want to bleed the very blood of which it was constructed. In my opinion, literary fiction is actually less focused on plot and far more derived of powerful, poignant prose.
I like to read great prose. I read literary works because I think it will make me a better writer. Because it makes me think and feel in a different kind of way. I take down notes in the margins of literary books. But I don’t become immersed in them. I don’t finish a page and feel a rush of emotions. Sometimes I even struggle to finish them, because the engagement of a great story just isn’t there.
But that’s just me. Someone else might revel in the likes of Joyce Carol Oates, Zadie Smith and Ernest Hemingway.
I couldn’t get into the Twilight books either, and even a recount of any shade of grey makes me cringe. But again, that’s just me. There are millions of people who loves those books. People who are serious about reading, and love those books.
And to that I say, great.
At least they are reading. Because at the end of the day, isn’t the reason we write because we want to be read? Isn’t being read by someone (other than your mum/best friend/partner) the greatest achievement for a writer? That’s what I consider being taken seriously.
No matter what or why people read, whether it’s to escape, to laugh, to think or to feel, we should be grateful that there are still millions of people buying books and reading ferociously. Because without readers, there would be no reason for us to write.