Why I’m Trying Not to be a Snob About Fiction
By: Kirsten Clodfelter
A few years ago (mostly by accident, I swear!) I kind of became a snob. I was in my very early twenties and getting my Master’s degree, and this combination made me feel like I had some authority on things, as if my cultivated opinion was pretty important. I endured the death of a parent at a young age as well as a few other complicated experiences early in my life, so I wouldn’t exactly say that I was sheltered, but after graduate school I spent a little bit of time in the “real” world and realized pretty quickly that I didn’t actually know jack shit about almost anything.
I hold a BA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing, and because I’ve devoted almost my entire postsecondary education to reading and studying literature, it was extremely easy to become stuck-up about what other people were reading, about what someone else could or could not say was “good.”
I was a hypocrite right from the beginning, but it took me some time to see it. Here’s an example: I think Chopin and Etta James and The National are music gold—an important part of the cannon and full of talent and skill, but I will also happily listen to Britany Spears, Lady Gaga, and yes, even Ke$ha for hours on end without apology. For some reason, it’s never been a problem to own up to the fact that I enjoy listening to a musician, if we can even call her that, with a dollar sign in her name. Pop music is pop for a reason—it’s popular. That’s the whole point. It relies on specific characteristics that make it pleasing to listen to: catchy, simple melodies, noticeable rhythm, and a strong chorus, and I fall for it all (pardon this tired cliché) hook, line, and sinker.
And maybe I’d feel differently if I had once studied at Julliard or Oberlin, or if I held a Master’s degree in music theory, or even if I had ever skillfully played a single instrument during my lifetime. And this difference, maybe, is why I will argue all day that there is nothing wrong with listening to Miley Cyrus (I know, and I’m sorry, but something about “Party in the USA” just feels adorable to me) as long as I’m not claiming she’s equally as talented as Nina Simone, but I will still cringe reflexively every single time I hear someone utter the name Dan Brown.
My father runs his own delivery business and spends 25+ hours each week in the car, where his favorite way to pass the time is to listen to audio books. He “reads,” on average, a book each week, which means that over the last ten years or so, he’s read more books than I will have read probably even ten years from now, and I’m saying that as someone who not only devoted seven years of undergraduate and graduate study to literature and writing, but also as someone who now teaches it. (Hey, so, have I mentioned yet that I have a Master’s degree?)
But when my father dutifully asks me to name my five favorite authors, and I think carefully before I tell him Amy Hempel, Karen Russell, Ben Percy, Pam Houston, and Margot Singer, he answers, “Who?” (And I’m not sure I can blame him—when I checked, only Russell’s Swamplandia! and Houston’s Sight Hound were available in audio format at my own local library.) My father loves Patrick Robinson, who writes nautical thrillers, Robert D. Parker’s detective and western novels, and Jan Karon, author of the Mitford series about a small-town preacher. I groan when he tells me this, but who am I, really, to decide in what another person should take pleasure?
His response is not uncommon. When I share news about the authors I love and admire with friends outside of my small literary community, like that several years ago at AWP I got to have dinner with Richard Bausch, or that Ben Percy bought me a beer after he did a reading during the Fall for the Book Festival, or that I spent a month studying under Stuart Dybek as a participant in the Prague Summer Program, or that Alan Cheuse was my thesis direction during my time at George Mason, I get blank stares. (Please note that this excessive name-dropping is a clear indicator that while I’m trying to recover from my snobbery, I’m just not quite there yet…) In my reality, this news translates to something awesome, like if someone told me they got to hang out with Joseph Gordon Levitt or that they met Joel McHale. To others, though, not so much.
I need to be okay with that. If someone wants to read Jodi Picoult, I’m not going to begrudge them that. Good for them for at least reading. (I realize that this still sounds pretty snobby. Like I said, I’m working on it.) And yes, it would be great if they were reading the literary authors that I like (not because I like them, but because they’re significant and should be read), but my dad probably still wishes I’d take up golf, and I’m not a lesser person for not knowing the difference between Phil Mickelson and Rocco Mediate.
I adjunct at a community college in Louisville, where I teach a combination of composition and developmental English classes. I try to expose my students to as many great writers as I can get my hands on, and I look for the ones who I think will get their attention. I appreciate Shakespeare’s important place in the literary cannon, but I don’t think he’s an appropriate medium for reaching the majority of freshman undergraduates about writing. Instead, I opt for what might be more immediately relatable and engaging, essays by Michael Chabon, stories by Amy Hempel or Richard Bausch, lots of flash fiction.
To help pay the bills, I also teach two classes each quarter at a for-profit school. Here, my curriculum is mine to plan but the required novel is chosen for me. It is always one of three books by Mitch Albom. When I was first teaching this class, I made the mistake of telling my students that I hadn’t chosen the book and that I hated it. Some of them looked crushed. A few of my students, many of whom are second-career or returning adults, confided that this was the first book they had read in more than a decade. One student told me this was the first book he had finished in his life. Ever. What an asshole I was. Now, I’m more careful. I explain that I don’t find Mitch Albom to be especially teachable because of how straight-forward his writing is, and I ask my students to look at it alongside other, more complex writing in order to aid the development of their analytical and critical-thinking skills.
I have my own guilty pleasures in reading. I’ve been a Stephen King fan for most of my life, and even though I agree that his writing is at times formulaic, I think there are plenty of gems buried in his many novels, particularly Hearts of Atlantis. I was pleased to see him earn what I feel was a much deserved mention on the NYT list of 100 Notable Books for his fifty-first (or fifty-second, by the NYT’s count) book in 2011. And although it’s certainly not without its lines of corny dialogue, Frank Herbert’s Dune is an incredible and impressive work of science fiction. As a young(ish) adult, these books helped encourage my love of reading and storytelling just as much as did Lois Lowry and Francesca Lia Block.
In March, my boyfriend and I are expecting our first child. I’ll encourage her to read the lauded YA books from my own teenage years, Number the Stars and Bridge to Terabithia, along with things like Harry Potter, if any of that will even still be relevant a decade or more from now. But when she also gets excited about whoever the equivalent of Stephanie Myer will be twelve or fifteen years from now, I won’t make her feel badly about it. Instead, maybe that will provide me with an opportunity to discuss with her the merits and shortcomings of both—where each succeeds or doesn’t in terms of quality, entertainment, aesthetics, and poignancy. Most likely, I’ll just be grateful that she’s spending her time reading instead of watching reality TV.
