Vignette on Frazen, Lit Fiction & The Twitterverse

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The literary hype machine descends upon the masses. Its message””Frazen is here! Rejoice, you troglodytes!””is splayed across the web like a flickering neon sign. I didn”â„¢t know Jonathan Frazen was upon us once again. I haven”â„¢t even read The Corrections yet””one of those “I know it exists and I”â„¢m inclined to read it but I have a 200 book backlog to work down” oversights.
The Huffington Post recently trumpeted the arrival of Frazenstein”â„¢s monster, Freedom, released today. We, as writers, should be proud that such fanfare surrounds an author, so the Huff goes, and the hype serves as a repudiation to the notion that literature or, specifically, novels are no longer valued. I can dig it. That is, of course, if I believe the hype is generated by the masses, as though they””we””clamor for, of all things, a literary novel, one written by an author who, according to those same masses, brushed off The Oprah.
Look, my issue isn”â„¢t with Frazen””far be it for me to hate on him without reading any of his work. I am, however, weary of the hype itself, a cacophony of sycophantic praise which, for now, renders my slice of the Internet near intolerable. It”â„¢s the flaw of interconnectivity””one of the flaws, anyway””that now allows backlash to supersede the event itself; we”â„¢re so far ahead with our social networks, we love or pan the product before its release.
Indeed, never judge a book by its cover; judge it by the pre-release reviews from members of the intelligentsia, the literati, happy to discuss anything unrelated to the Millennium Trilogy. Let it be, a part of me says; it”â„¢s not often literary fiction gets this much shine, no matter how self-perpetuated, and self-contained, it appears to be.
My Twitter account is beset by fucking #frazenfrenzy.
I know about Freedom because I”â„¢m plugged in; I follow the New Yorker, the New York Times, as well as writers of varying stature and skill. In this meager meta-world of subtle plots, tight prose and fascination with Midwestern lore, lit fiction aficionados play hype-men for their great American novelist though they know few people will read the book. And I anticipate backlash toward the backlash. Debates on the death of literary fiction, its value, and its place among American readers; debates as mutually satisfying as a circle jerk.
This is a part of my growing disdain with literary fiction, not as a genre, but as a lens used to view the reading public, in whole, as ignorant barbarians lusting for more memoirs. It”â„¢s a played out cycle, an anachronistic foray into the reader”â„¢s mind with conclusions both antagonistic and incorrect. But that”â„¢s an argument for another day. For now, I”â„¢m thinking I need to unplug, not from the books themselves, but the weblogged dialogue destined to be espoused after the publication of Freedom. I”â„¢m set to un-follow a few tweeters before the death knell of literature””fiction, in particular””is rung, yet again.

Jonathan-Franzen-The-Corr-006

The literary hype machine descends upon the masses. Its message—Frazen is here! Rejoice, you troglodytes!—is splayed across the web like a flickering neon sign. I didn’t know Jonathan Frazen was upon us once again. I haven’t even read The Corrections yet—one of those “I know it exists and I’m inclined to read it but I have a 200 book backlog to work down” oversights.

The Huffington Post recently trumpeted the arrival of Frazenstein’s monster, Freedom, released today. We, as writers, should be proud that such fanfare surrounds an author, so the Huff goes, and the hype serves as a repudiation to the notion that literature or, specifically, novels are no longer valued. I can dig it. That is, of course, if I believe the hype is generated by the masses, as though they—we—clamor for, of all things, a literary novel, one written by an author who, according to those same masses, brushed off The Oprah.

Look, my issue isn’t with Frazen—far be it for me to hate on him without reading any of his work. I am, however, weary of the hype itself, a cacophony of sycophantic praise which, for now, renders my slice of the Internet near intolerable. It’s the flaw of interconnectivity—one of the flaws, anyway—that now allows backlash to supersede the event itself; we’re so far ahead with our social networks, we love or pan the product before its release.

Indeed, never judge a book by its cover; judge it by the pre-release reviews from members of the intelligentsia, the literati, happy to discuss anything unrelated to the Millennium Trilogy. Let it be, a part of me says; it’s not often literary fiction gets this much shine, no matter how self-perpetuated, and self-contained, it appears to be.

My Twitter account is beset by fucking #frazenfrenzy.

I know about Freedom because I’m plugged in; I follow the New Yorker, the New York Times, as well as writers of varying stature and skill. In this meager meta-world of subtle plots, tight prose and fascination with Midwestern lore, lit fiction aficionados play hype-men for their great American novelist though they know few people will read the book. And I anticipate backlash toward the backlash. Debates on the death of literary fiction, its value, and its place among American readers; debates as mutually satisfying as a circle jerk.

This is a part of my growing disdain with literary fiction, not as a genre, but as a lens used to view the reading public, in whole, as ignorant barbarians lusting for more memoirs. It’s a played out cycle, an anachronistic foray into the reader”â„¢s mind with conclusions both antagonistic and incorrect.

But that”â„¢s an argument for another day. For now, I’m thinking I need to unplug, not from the books themselves, but the weblogged dialogue destined to be espoused after the publication of Freedom. I’m set to un-follow a few tweeters before the death knell of literature””fiction, in particular—is rung, yet again.

**You can follow me on twitter @thomasdemary**