My book club recently reached a full consensus about a book: none of us liked it. In fact, four of the ten chose not to finish reading it. The conversation about the book was entertaining because whenever there’s agreement, people can speak freely, and some of their comments about how much they disliked the book were actually pretty funny. The writer in me, though, felt the need to defend the author now and then. Of everyone, I was probably the one who came closest to liking the novel. I mean, the premise was original, the structure was intriguing, and the author had clearly done her research.
Last night I was watching the PBS documentary Hemingway. In it, one of the commentators repeated an old adage that I hate. She said “all” writers are narcissists. How can you not be a narcissist if you’re happy sitting alone in a room for twelve hours engrossed in your own thoughts? I’m not sure what overly privileged writers she counts among her friends, but most of my writer and artist friends are in no position to spend twelve hours a day musing over their own brilliance. Most of us have full or part-time jobs outside of our writing, or we have kids at home who need our attention, or we’re busy running our own businesses. This concept of the spoiled artist who cares for nothing but their art really annoys me.
