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Big Surprise: Popular Fiction Still Sucks, or Jodi Picoult Can Eat a Dick

I’m always first to admit that I’m frequently filled with blinding rage. There’s a reason I bought that heavy bag that hangs in the center of my basement that now retains two dents from my elbows, one from repeated lashes of my shin, a reason why I decided to learn Muay Thai. I think it’s because if I didn’t, there’s a good chance I’d sit many a night in jail after having popped so-and-so square in the fucking mouth for saying, or doing, or looking something stupid. And it’s good, I think, that although I can go from zero to 150 in a split second, I know to look for an outlet. I know that people’s teeth, and jaws, and balls are important to them. So I think, for this reason, I don’t really need continued therapy.

I also know my raging is unjustified. When I consider the twists and turns my life has taken over the past four years or so, I know my situation could be much worse. I could be out of a job, out of my house, without my dogs, paying alimony. I could be that ex, or I could be that other ex, but I’m not, so I consider myself lucky. But even now as a mention these two exes, I want to go find them and punch them in the mouth.

Novel writing also makes me angry. I think it’s because I’m my own worst critic, but who fucking isn’t? So that doesn’t make me special, nor does it give me a good reason to ignore the process altogether. I think it makes me angry because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and be really good at, to succeed and make a little money and change a life or two. But turns out it’s really fucking hard—seriously—and I don’t understand why, especially since I’ve known these characters for five-plus years. Why are they being such little bitches right now? Why can’t they just play along and be properly represented in writing the way they appear in my brain?

I thought for a little while that I was putting too much pressure on myself. I had just finished Lorrie Moore’s new novel, A Gate at the Stairs, and Lorrie Moore always makes me bite my knuckles and break out a highlighter to mark the very many places where she can show a simple act or movement with such poignancy, and then follow that up with hilarity. And nothing about this, about her writing, seems forced or disingenuous. My first draft? I could teach a semester-long seminar on forced and disingenuous.

So, I decided to take a little break with some good, ol’ American “popular fiction.” I had prejudices formed already about what this country considered good writing, okay? But I turned to my fellow commuters for recommendations anyway and started with Chelsea Cain’s Heartsick. It was like an episode of CSI, or Law and Order, or Criminal Minds. She certainly had the recipe for success, although it resulted in something as unsatisfying as a greasy, fast food meal, one you can get from any burger joint, on this corner or the next.

I told my mom about my new bad fiction habit. She recommended to me Jodi Picoult as a famous writer who has experienced recent successes with her writing, so maybe a novel of hers would be time well spent for me to, you know, “see how it’s done.” And wouldn’t you know my mom had one in mind for me? It was called The Pact, and she plucked it from her bookshelf, knew exactly where it was. It stood right next to that amazing Louise Erdrich hardcover I had bought for her back in 1996, so I considered this a good sign.

She said to me, “It’s really dark, really haunting.” I’m butchering her words right now, so, sorry mom, but you have to admit they were something similar to this. I saw my sister later in the day, and she said, I think, “It was so dark and depressing, I could barely get through it.”

Oh, Jodi! I thought. We might have something in common! I was convinced I had found myself a new muse and, for the first time maybe ever, one with a name that people had actually heard before.

***

This last canvas was washed with a red and black background. A floating skull grinned out from the picture, bone white and gleaming, a painfully blue sky streaked with clouds showing through the holes of the eye sockets. A realistic red tongue snaked out from between yellowed teeth….At the bottom, Emily had signed her name. And titled it Self-Portrait.

I was on the train when I laughed out loud at this passage. I think I even shook my head a little. I should have slapped my knee, actually. My apologies (and congratulations) to those who have not read The Pact, but this is a description of art done by Picoult’s teenaged character Emily, used as proof of what a troubled young woman she was, an example of one of the many warning signs she was suicidal.

No. No, no, no, no, no. A realistic red tongue snaking out? No. A “painfully blue sky”? No! And this was not the only place where I found bogus descriptive language used without shame:

Chris reached out and twisted the folder, reading the distinguishing marks of her body that he could have cataloged himself, the measure of her lungs, the color of her brain. He did not have to read the careful number to know the weight of Emily’s heart; he’d held it for years.

This is Chris, Emily’s boyfriend, reviewing the autopsy report while he sat in prison, waiting to be tried for Emily’s murder. This is Chris, a 17-year-old boy, who somehow knew the color of his girlfriend’s brain, and who, of course, knew the fucking ounces her heart had weighed because, as the text says right there for us, he’d held it for years. This bit should have been printed in pink text, with three rosy red hearts used to signify the section break. This bit, actually, should have been cut by an editor with a brain, and then copied into the body of an e-mail, and then circulated to all of his or her friends as a sample of writing to be mocked, something to be used in inside jokes, with all involved resting their hands on their stomachs for one of those good kinds of laughs.

And, you know, it wasn’t only the clichéd language and scenarios that Jodi Picoult used that really pissed me off the most, but it was also the implied bigotry without any comeuppance, the insanely gross, PG-13 sex scenes that I didn’t think was supposed to make my skin crawl, and that fact that, in all of its 389 pages, there was not one likable character in this piece of shit. Everyone from the parents, to the teachers, to the cops and attorneys, there was not one redeeming—or original!—trait to be found. Not one! In all those pages! How was this possible?

And one other thing. How was it possible that I was unable to put this book down, compelled by all of its fictional atrocities?

***

I’d like to finish my first post of the year for 30pov.com without punching my monitor, so allow me this short time to gather my thoughts and redirect them into something that could be seen as much more positive. If Jodi Picoult can do this, then I know 30 other writers that just so happen to be in their 30s that can, too—and better. Like, far better. And this list includes me! So, although my first awakening of almost 2010 wasn’t exactly a good one—Americans like and buy really, really shitty fiction—there is a silver lining in this shit cloud:

I’m a better writer than Jodi Picoult. Now I just have to prove it.

19 responses to “Big Surprise: Popular Fiction Still Sucks, or Jodi Picoult Can Eat a Dick”

  1. Ang, I haven’t even read your post yet, but I wanted to extend a heartfelt “fuck yeah!” for its title.

  2. Jason Jason says:

    The description of a skull as bone white is the new No. 1 on my unintended comedy list. Another ridiculously great piece to lead off the issue, Angela. Hidden in this is one unmentionable truth, that it's the fact that this fiction is predictable (read: horrible) that draws so many to it, so many of the same that seek solace in what they already know rather than exploring what they don't. There is another truth, of course, that great writing changes lives–not just the one or two you seek, but countless others. Picoult's days are numbered.

    • Avatar angelatav says:

      So do you think I should scrap my idea for novel No. 2? Based on Casey Anthony, The National Enquirer's MOST favorite vilain/vixen (and like Picoult, I'll be stealing from the headlines, thank you very much), and thus America's, it's tentatively titled "Hoochie Mama Killed My Baby."
      No? No?

  3. Avatar emmy em says:

    Hell yeah you are. No doubt about it. Great post & thank you for the warning against this Picoult character's books you talk about.

  4. BB222 BB222 says:

    I'm totally stealing Picoult's "weight of the heart" line and using it for my wife's Valentine's Day card this year.
    I hear you Ang. Here are some trite thoughts on not letting pop lit get to you: don't let it get to you. Who cares about Jodi Picoult? Would you agree to have your writing sound just like hers if it guaranteed you a best seller? I doubt it. And unfortunately, you've already proven that you're a better writer than Picoult just by the fact that you don't have a NYT best seller.

    • Avatar angelatav says:

      Hm, Barry. Tell me—what's the DOLLAR AMOUNT on the contract post my best seller storming the charts?
      I am so willing to sell out, I swear it, my 18-year-old self would spit on me.

    • Avatar llxt says:

      actually, you've already proved that you're a better writer by leading off our site every month, and kicking ass/taking names while doing it. i can't guarantee you money or fame or anything else "best" that picoult has, but i can guarantee that you'll A) be able to sleep at night and B) have an awesome editor waiting at your doorstep when this novel of yours is finished (e.g. ME)

  5. Avatar rosie says:

    PRE- POST READING COMMENT: I am sure I will enjoy ANY and ALL posts telling Jodi Picoult to eat dick…
    just needed to put that put there before continuing further…NOW I will read this post…

  6. Avatar d.pasquarelli says:

    Agreed on all counts. Most new fiction sucks ass, especially if it is "popular" or makes the Oprah reading club list. Unfortuantely that crap makes those authors a lot of money while others languish in near-poverty. Keep your integrity and the success will follow, also keeps your hands up and your chin down.

  7. Avatar enid says:

    Hilarious. I love you, Ange. You have proven your worth as a writer many times. Get with the program. HA HA HA!

  8. Will Will says:

    This is exactly how I felt when I read The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer. Absolutely terrible and predictable. Total junk. And yet…I read the whole thing. Of course it only took me about 8 hours, but whatevs.

  9. Will Will says:

    Oh, I forgot to mention I then found out that Meltzer was working with Joss Whedon on the Buffy comic and I nearly had a heart attack. Two worlds colliding!

  10. Avatar Desiree says:

    You are very stupid!!

  11. Avatar Audrey says:

    I googled “Jodi picoult bad writer” in hopes of finding someone out there that hates her writing as much as I do and found this post Her books are awarded four stars in the kindle universe and I was duped when bedridden with the flu to try “my sister’s keeper”. Which had lame pathetic ending but what made me angrier than cop out of ending was I never cared about a single character. Not the dying sister, the grieving parents, the little sister conceived for donor parts. I want my money back am never reading a novel again. Thank you for voicing your outrage- I too wanted to kick something after enduring stupid book.

  12. […] the writer who started us off for so many months, ATav.  Her posts were always surprising, often expletive, and, more often than not, set a bar that was way too high for anyone else to reach. (Click on the […]

  13. Ingenius, awesome post. I adore stuff similar to this.

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angelatav About angelatav

On the eve of her 30th birthday, Angela Tavares found black metal, and life has been awesomely grim ever since. When she’s not walking the forests on cold winter nights or crafting inverted crosses with twigs and twine, she’s writing a novel, like everyone else you know. On an unrelated note, she talks for every animal she meets, a habit she’s finding hard to quit, and loves Greek yogurt.

Read more by this author on 30POV .


Issues

December 2010
Paradox
November 2010
On My Honor
October 2010
Witch Hunt
September 2010
If, Then.
May 2010
Small Crimes
April 2010
Intoxication
February 2010
"It's Complicated"
January 2010
Awakenings