I would make more money if I wrote something different.
Do you know what consolatory literature is?
Simply put, consolatory literature is the kind of story that makes the reader feel better about things, in a sort of uncomplicated fashion. A consolatory story confirms the reader’s preconceptions about the world; it does not challenge him to think or even to rearrange his prejudices.
And it’s satisfying and popular for that reason, and a lot of people like it. They want their good guys good and their bad guys bad. They do not want to be asked hard questions without yes or no answers. They want good to triumph over evil and hero to bed heroine.
But that might not be what they need. Because stories that uncritically accept that paradigm aren’t teaching us anything.
Not that I approve of didactic literature, either. (By didactic literature, I mean literature that takes a position and attempts to convince the reader that its position is the correct one–or worse, literature that cannot conceive of any reader having a valid sense of ethics that differs from the writer’s. Stories, in other words, with morals, other than ironic or complicated ones.)
Now, what works for me may not work for anyone else, but in my own work, I strive to ask questions that do not have good answers. That may not even have acceptable answers, because it seems to me that life is a series of unholy compromises and devil’s bargains, and often we find ourselves in positions where there is no good answer. And it’s something I see tackled so rarely in fiction, that when I find that kind of moral complexity, I am willing to forgive a lot.
The thing is, your consolatory literature tends to be what sells better. It’s comforting; it’s pleasant; it doesn’t involve a lot of emotional risk for the reader. Formula fiction is not going to disappoint, because it adheres to the formula–unless, of course, one is the sort of reader who finds formula fiction disappointing by its nature. In which case, nothing will save it for you.
Me? I’m grateful to those profoundly dis-satisfied readers (though I suspect they may be more prone to angst and unhappiness, due to this propensity for asking questions with difficult answers). I’m grateful to those readers because they make it possible for me to write the kind of stories that I like to write, even if they aren’t the most commercial stories in the world. If it weren’t for them–
–well, I’d probably go find a job that offers health insurance. Because, as a friend who was an emergency medical technician once told me, if you’re going to lie to somebody, make it one you can live with later. (His example was that he never told a casualty “You’re going to be okay,” unless he was sure of it. What he told them was, “We’re doing everything we can.”)
I may tell lies for a living, but there are lies I’m comfortable telling, and lies I’m not comfortable telling. Because books do matter, as much as anything matters. And if the contents of a book can be that centering truth–”we’re doing everything we can”–rather than a comforting lie, well. I feel like I owe it to the reader and to myself to get it close to right.
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Comments
I tend to fall into your camp. I really HOPE for intelligent, thoughtful readers…and when I write something with philosophically loose ends, I’m intrigued to know in which direction folks unraveled them. It can be a revelation to hear about your work from another’s perspective…
DNW
Hi Elizabeth,
I very much like your distinction between consolatory literature and didactic literature. I will probably be arm-twisted into teaching literature this year (I really don’t like teaching it; I like teaching writing and creative problem solving) so I will likely use your definitions if you don’t mind. Thanks!
George Guthridge
Loren:
Sorry! My bad!
David:
Reader-type people teach me stuff ALL THE TIME.
George:
With my blessing. I’m not sure it’s my distinction, actually. Or, in that form, it might be, but in general, I suspect I stole the composite bits from others. 
Two thoughts, both which are more riffs off what you’re saying here than any attempt to rebut.
One is that I don’t automatically knock people for wanting to read uncomplicated, unchallenging fiction. (Not saying you do, either — it isn’t clear from this essay — but some people definitely do.) I don’t know about you, but I can’t eat gourmet food for every meal; there are nights I just want mac and cheese, and out-of-the-box Kraft mac and cheese at that. When people read only Kraft fiction, when they shy away from anything that requires digestion — then it’s a problem.
The other is that I think a lot of people assume Tolkien was speaking about this type of consolation when he talks about it being the proper function of fantasy, and I don’t think that’s it at all. It’s been a while since I read “On Fairy Stories,” but I’m pretty sure the man had a more complex and challenging (and philosophical) notion of Consolation in mind.
It’s meant to be clear, actually, that I have no problem with anything people want to read.
It’s not for me to judge anybody else’s taste.
It’s just not what I want to read. Or write. (One of my editors tells me that I like things that are too “smrt.” *g* Now, this is somebody who likes my books and pays me for them, so it’s not that she disapproves…)
As for Tolkein, I agree. he’s interested not in telling people that everything will be fine, better than it ever was, and nobody nice iwll get too badly hurt–but rather in telling them that wounds can be survived.
Which is something I am interested in telling people, too.
Yay. I needed this concept the other night, when I was trying to explain to a friend why I hated a particular book so badly. It was obviously an Eden-and-Fall style origins-myth, but it was so freakin’ self-assured in its assumptions of the inherent saintliness of victims… Well, I ended up abandoning it early, unable to deal. And yet, it’s an award-winning book, and the ‘net is studded with rave reviews of the thing.
So thanks. Both for the term, and for writing morally messy books.
(And because blogger never lets me sign off properly — this is Sanguinity on LJ.)
Recently in an interview Lois McMasters Bujold said “To give delight and hurt not seems sufficient ambition to me.” And I thought that was interesting because certainly that would seem to refer to writing a sort of consolatory literature, yes? The quote made me wonder why we choose to write what we write. It is easy to make it seem as if smartest people write the stuff that challenges and less-smart people go for teh comforting, but I’ve seen too much evidence to the contrary to buy into that one.
I wonder if this particular writing choice has anything to do with what the individual writer sees as her purpose or calling (my that sounds high falutin’)? Or maybe it is as simple as personality: Some of us are more apt to afflict the comfortable and others are more apt to comfort the afflicted.
Interesting essay. I won’t make assumptions about your intended meaning, but here’s the thing: anybody who writes in a 3-act story structure (that’s everything from Gelgamesh to Die Hard 3) writes “formula” by definition.
Having 3-dimensional characters deal with complex problems for which there are no simple, black/white solutions does make for more interesting reading (IMO), but your essay seems to confuse character and conflict with story structure.
Also, FYI, I recall an old study done to understand why romance novels with consistently simple storylines were so popular. The answer the study came up with was that these stories allowed readers to unconsciously reconnect with childhood and fairy tales, thereby providing stress-reduction.
Anonymous: I’m not talking about narrative *structure* at all. Sorry if I confused you.
Muneraven: That’s probably *the* reason why, although Ms. Bujold is a skilled writer, I don’t read her work for pleasure.
And here’s the hit-post-too-soon comment:
Re: three-act structure. I’m actually not all that convinced it’s as prevalent as you suggest. It is the most common narrative structure in modern western lit, and *I* use it (I also like five-act structure, which is a bit different) but it’s far from the only way to structure a narrative.
Here’s my thing, though: consolatory literature, if done right, should be challenging, too, just in a different way. Rather than challenging people to think differently about something, it challenges them to *act* differently.
Good consolatory literature takes away people’s excuses for not being heroic. It says, “Yeah, doing the right thing isn’t easy: the work seems endless and impossible and the costs are enormous. But see, it’s worth it in the end. It works out. Believe that, and get started.” It’s not an anaesthetic, it’s an inspiration.
(Of course, the vast majority of consolatory literature doesn’t accomplish this particularly well, but you know what they say about 90% of everything….)
Erika
Erika–
That’s a really interesting take on it, and you may be right. I tend to think of it as a lie–if you work hard enough, you can make everything all better, and there won’t be a serious price, other than a few photogenic noble deaths of supporting characters–as opposed to the truer statement that you have to keep working to make things better because the alternative is that they get worse, but the work is never done, you know?–but that might just be my own bias creeping in!
You chose a subject about which there must be as many opinions as readers, but you addressed it very well. Within the comments there seem to be kernels that could be developed into a future essay or two.
By the way, thank you for your comment about my disassembly essay.
RCJ
One of the tenets of medicine is: If you want to cure a disease, or a condition, look at the people who don’t have it. What makes them different?
As for the condition addressed here — the lopsided sales ratio of feel-good fiction versus more challenging fiction — I wouldn’t dare deny that it’s the overriding trend.
Still, I find myself thinking about all the exceptions. To name just a very few: Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake. Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain, and the author he seemed most to be modeling, Cormac McCarthy, in book after book. Not a feel-good novel in the lot, or even necessarily an easy, breezy read. Yet all novels with sales figures that any of us would probably love to have.
And not that it’s anything to emulate, but even one of the all-time sappy mega-bestsellers, The Bridges of Madison County, ended in tears.
The former batch, though, and all the rest that could be added to them: What makes them buck the trend? Why were they widely embraced? It certainly wasn’t because they comforted and reassured. That, too, could be fodder for an essay unto itself, but to what purpose, really? It would essentially be looking for just another formula.
At the core, I guess, while I’ll certainly acknowledge that it’s an uphill battle, I resist the notion that fiction can’t be both morally/emotionally challenging and widely read.
It may never play in the same league with Bridget Jones, but does it need to in order to have something more than a cult readership?
Brian–
Absolutely I don’t think that one needs to sissy out to have decent sales figures. Margaret Atwood is a good example. Kurt Vonnegut another. Anthony Burgess.
I think the best advice is “Be brilliant. And also interesting to read.”
Of course, if we could figure that out…
Elizabeth, I love your blog.
While I don’t mind stories that pull it all together sometimes, my all-time favorites are usually the opposite. Let’s see, “Lord of the Flies,” “Fahrenheit 451,” “Survivor” (by Palahniuk), and others. Maybe it’s their richness that makes them hard to swallow as a regular diet, but boy would I moan the day I couldn’t find those rich literary meals.
Strangely (to some), my own beliefs as a Christian make me more willing to see the world through lots of different viewpoints. It’s a big ol’ messy world, and I’ve accepted that. I even have some sense of an eternal conclusion. But that doesn’t change the fact there’s a lot of crap that goes on that just doesn’t fit into any easy box.
I’m with you. Keep asking the questions. Exploring the fringes. We need those five-star meals, even if most Americans go for the fast-food literature.
I loved your essay. Wish you’d signed it, though! I read Storytellers Unplugged on livejournal and had to click through to find your name.