A strange sort of chain-of-events have collided in my mind and reached an interesting conclusion. I’m not sure which is more curiously interesting – the chain of events, or the conclusion they reached, but what better place to muse them than here.
I was watching a DVD the other day, The Transporter with Jason Statham (drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a manly man) because Transporter 2 is out now, and I’d never seen Transporter 1. Well naturally all the reviews went on and on about how vacuous the plot was . . . having seen it I can honestly say “Who cares?!” It was exactly what I was looking for – action/adventure/and a fantastic looking leading man. I wanted a movie that would entertain me, something I could watch while checking my brain at the door, and it filled the bill and then some. I'm even going to watch it again this weekend!
I love men – and I love watching men in action movies. I don’t require plot, or depth, or morally uplifting values. Just good looking men, and action.
It was candy, but with the satisfaction of a steak dinner.
Then this week I was checking up on a television show that premiered its new season on the BBC this week, but I have to wait to see it here on A&E in January. I like spoilers, as I’ve said before, so by the time it airs here in the US, it will have concluded it’s season in England – meaning I can read up on each episode while I wait.
So I’m on the web page, reading what viewers thought of the season opener, and I couldn’t help being surprised by the wide variety in opinions. I mean, these people’s views ranged from loving it to hating it. Some thought it was the most intriguing plot they’d seen in a long time, while others felt it was as empty and boring as most US programs. I marveled at the different things people said, each one practically contradicting the next, as if they’d seen two completely separate programs.
Then I’m sitting here today – having just now completed the corrections on my latest story (it’s going to my reader and her yellow high-lighter and green pen now) thinking back on a conversation I’d had years ago with someone . . . She’d made a comment about how my writing was good, if that’s the audience I was striving for.
Well to be honest, it took me a minute or two to realize she’d been insulting not only my writing, but everyone who reads it. Basically she was suggesting that I write poorly, and my readers mostly likely aren’t intelligent enough to realize this.
After a few days pondering that – and worrying that I really was writing very poor quality drivel, it slowly began to dawn on me that no, I wasn’t. I admit, freely and readily, that I am no genius. I’m not exactly penning out the next Pulitzer prize winning novel, or something you’ll EVER find on anyone’s best-sellers list. But the truth is . . . I don’t care.
In fact, the plain and simple truth – the one that concluded with all of these various chain of thought events twirling around in my brain today – is that I honestly don’t WANT to be. I don’t want to see myself on Oprah’s must-read list. I don’t want to be the subject of college Literature debates.
When I was younger, I loved nothing more than finding those books I could flash through in a summer week. Books full of adventure, characters I could visualize and fall in love with. Books with just enough plot to hold things together, and follow along from paperback to paperback, heavily peppered with action, adventure, mystery (never really been one for romance !)
They weren’t high literature. They were perhaps what some would consider “dime novels”, or serial adventures, and I couldn’t get enough. I’d get excited when I found a new one to read, and couldn’t wait for that one long summer day with nothing better to do that curl up somewhere with that paperback in hand, and dive in – completely immersing myself in the pages until the rest of the world simply faded into grey around me.
Cheap paperbacks you could fit into your purse or beach bag. The kind you read so many times they had a permanent crease in the spine.
These were books that became your best friends. Characters you could daydream about while on long car vacations with the family. Paperbacks you couldn’t buy enough of, and hated to see end each time.
They’re exactly the books this woman was telling me I was “lowering” myself to.
The literary equivalent of an action movie.
A paperback version of the Transporter. All fun and macho fluff – the stuff of daydreams -- no real purpose or insightful thought.
She was telling me that’s all I was going to amount to. All I was ever going to manage. As good as I was going to get.
I’ve decided now to take that as a compliment !
That’s exactly what I strive for. Exactly the type of entertainment I can only HOPE I’m achieving. The kind of writing I'm working to improve upon and make even more adventurous and exciting.
That’s the writer I want to be.