Pride and Pretentiousness

I have a friend who pronounces my name “keeorrr” (she knows who she is). I recently got back in touch with her, and was not surprised to hear that she was in the midst of completing her own magnum opus. I have a few very distinct memories of discussions with her; one of which leads to the subject of this…whatever it is.

We had probably begun the discussion with an argument about spirituality. Most of our discussions either began with this or ended with it; and one time we somehow managed to slip into a debate on literature – that being; ‘what was good literature’.

At the time, I had been reading a lot of Ian McEwan and I think it was his name, although I could be wrong, who sparked off her distaste. I think I said something like, “every single sentence is perfect, it’s like he has chosen every word with precise accuracy and careful thought”. I think she responded with something like, “oh, I hate that pretentious shit.”

What makes literature “pretentious”?

Amazon.com have a list of books to read if “you wish to properly converse with other elitist snobs”. The list includes:

• A Season in Hell and the Drunken Boat (Rimbaud)
• Utopia (More)
• The Stranger (Camus)
• The Catcher in the Rye (Salinger)

A new book, A Reader's Manifesto: An Attack on the Growing Pretentiousness in American Literary Prose, by B.R. Myers, says today's critically acclaimed American writers use complicated language to trick readers into thinking they have something important to say. Examples include:

• The Shipping News author Annie Proulx uses overblown "Evocative Prose" with little punctuation to achieve dramatic effect.
• All the Pretty Horses author Cormac McCarthy uses "Muscular Prose" to inflate the depth of the Wild West.

Myers is annoyed with these writers for taking themselves so seriously -- but his real gripe is with the critics who mock "genre" novels such as Westerns, romances and crime dramas while lavishing praise on "literary" authors. I have read neither of the above, so can not comment (although in the depths of my bones I can’t believe that Cormac McArthy is a simple trickster). I do however see Myer’s point about critics favoring only what has been classed (often prior to release) as “literature”. I love a good piece of ‘horror trash’.

Surely Proulx’s use of “Evocative Prose” is kind of the point. Should writers not heighten the feelings/emotions/effect of their story/characters with carefully structured style? But the pretentiousness of literature, and a reader’s definition of pretentiousness, remains the point of this discussion. Forgetting bad writers for a moment, what about those above who have been classed ‘pretentious’. Camus, because he has won the Nobel Prize? Salinger, because he became the voice of a generation? Is it the reader themselves which has turned this literature into something pretentious?

When my father was at University in the sixties, he told me that students used to carry around the teachings of Chairman Mau, although not many had actually read it. It was more of a statement than good bedtime reading. Do we assume that the readers themselves aren’t pretentious? How many of you have claimed you have read something; but you haven’t really? I have; although to be fair it’s normally because I am arguing something is good/bad without having read it simply because I have a genetic disposition to argumentativeness.

According to a survey, 65 percent of people in the UK have pretended to have read books, and of those, 42 percent singled out "1984," "War and Peace" and "Ulysses". Apparently, most people lied because they wanted to impress those they were talking to.

I suppose writers and readers are both the same really: both subject to the same self-deprecation which makes them reach for the thesaurus or fake reading list in the first place. Sometimes we must remember that being ‘average’ can at times actually be ‘the best’. If you will allow me to be elitist for a moment, I believe it was Richard Bach who said: “the simplest things are often the truest”. I won’t be snobbish or pretentious enough to say that I called that up from memory; I got it by searching for [quote + simplicity] on Google.

Twenty Thousand Words Down the Drain?

A lot of you who read this may be writers yourself - it is likely that at some point in your life you have suffered writers block. The block can come in many shapes and forms; degrees of intent if you will:


Block in the Third Degree - A temporary blankness, brought on by any number of situations. Careful thought and absence from your work can alleviate this.

Block in the Second Degree - A complete blankness resulting from a certain tangent of work; usually resulting in a permanent absence from the work; leading to the 'unfinished'.

Block in the First Degree - The most dangerous of all which writers fear. A total absence of ability to write, to the level of a phobia, just seeing a blank page can set off hyperventilation, nausea and an inordinate fondness for Scotch.


I am lucky enough to have never suffered at the hands of Block in the First Degree, but have been touched by Second and Third - it is likely that most of you have as well. Even the most prolific of writers do.

A famous case is The Stand by Stephen King, who nearly abandoned the project, which many think to be his best, due to writer’s block. He finally came to the conclusion that the good guys in his story were simply making all the same mistakes as the society from which they had survived. He needed an out.

Those of you who have read The Stand may notice the change in tone, when Mr King decided to change the rules of engagement; when he stood in the dock and announced his guilt to Block in the Second Degree. Rather than it leading to the 'unfinished' Mr King decided to remove the road he was on his way down. As well as Block in the Second Degree he committed Murder in the First; he killed off half the characters, blew up the town where the good guys were living and introduced a nuke into the equation. He saved the story, just. Most say it’s his best work, but the block is evident and the results of it always left me with a sour taste.

So whats all this about?

Three weeks ago I wrote the following paragraph; an excerpt from Chapter 4 of my new novel.

A councillor left, tripping over a chair leg as she went; and a patient went mute while labels hung in the air. Prince and damsel are reunited, but marred by the advent of labels (boyfriend of all things!), they become as toneless as the vision of our heroine. So, Titilayo lay in her bed, mouth unmoving, despite the arrival of her saviour and knight. This sour rebirth of their relationship was not what either had expected, but neither were willing to wade through the murky swamp of labels; not just yet. So, to laughter for a stepping stone route over it: “You cut your hair – love what you’ve done with it.” And with Titilayo’s sardonic chuckle in response, labels were forgotten and a relationship rebooted.

This won't mean much in the absence of what comes before it and might not even read like something particularly good even with the preceding text. However, after I had written it, gone back to the beginning and re-read it; I was convinced I had taken a step forward. There are times in a writer’s life, when they are still learning as I am, when the steps forward are so tangible and noticeable that when they occur, they inspire this fervent hope. When so much of it is gradual, after a hundred-thousand words, two hundred thousand, three, four, five; and still that spark you wished you had is missing. When you sit at your desk wishing you could channel the long dead greats who look so 'cool' on your bookshelf. When these steps forward occur, without any causative factor it seems, a madness overcomes you. You look behind at what has come before and the distinction is so clear that you cling to that new paragraph like a life-raft. And in clinging to it; the Block happens.

You don't believe in spirituality, but did you just channel one of the greats? Or half greats? Hell, just someone obviously better than you? You take one hand off the raft, you search out for that ephemeral door which had led to the paragraph; it’s locked. Instead you go back, re-read again, and again - clinging to the raft with frost bitten hands. Perhaps you'll get it back through association. No, that's enough for tonight - just don't drown. Day two, re-read, the door remains locked - salt water all around but not a drop to drink. You move onto a different section, something un-linked. Its awful, drivel, readers poison. Highlight. Delete. Day three: more of the same. You can't even find the door to see whether it’s locked. Hands of stone couldn't release the raft even if they wanted to.

"You are charged with Block in the Second Degree, how do you plead?"
"Guilty your Honour."

Weeks pass, you do nothing. You can't even bring yourself to open the file. You have incarcerated yourself behind television, meaningless phone calls to friends but the fear of the 'unfinished' remains - your only salvation, a nuke? No!

When faced between a nuke and an unfinished manuscript, what do you do? Characters plead with in-human eyes, mouths move in nauseating dialogue of woe, bleak scenery described in tangled adjectives. A tempting detonator in your hand, a large red button - perhaps if you press it, forty virgin words await.

So, did I press it?

I am sat here, writing this essay, instead of nuking Chapter 4. My finger is still hovering over the button, but as long as I write something...perhaps the door will return.

I hope you have enjoyed my procrastination as much as it has depressed me.