(no subject)
An L.A. Times review of some bad, very Sex-in-the-City-esque chick lit book really encapsules one of my major problems with a lot of contemporary American literature, including non-genre fic:
Davis maps an emotional terrain, following the harrowing contours and treacherous twists of the psyche, rather than a physical reality. That makes a visceral reaction more difficult. It may be that Davis has made the mistake of trying to cast Emily's minutely specific problem as universal and not rooted in any particular place and time. If so, she has overestimated Emily's appeal beyond her thirtysomething demographic and her East Coast urban niche.
Ha. You mean you didn't realize you were writing a product?
But more seriously, realism doesn't work if it's not aware of the reality it inhabits. It's just like all of those excellent photorealist blind painters.
Davis maps an emotional terrain, following the harrowing contours and treacherous twists of the psyche, rather than a physical reality. That makes a visceral reaction more difficult. It may be that Davis has made the mistake of trying to cast Emily's minutely specific problem as universal and not rooted in any particular place and time. If so, she has overestimated Emily's appeal beyond her thirtysomething demographic and her East Coast urban niche.
Ha. You mean you didn't realize you were writing a product?
But more seriously, realism doesn't work if it's not aware of the reality it inhabits. It's just like all of those excellent photorealist blind painters.