I am a writer of erotica and I abhor the genre it is marketed today as a whole with very few exceptions. I stand firmly as one of those staunch oponents of urban lit, ghetto lit and any sort of lit that falls in the category of just plain crappy writing. Our standards are apathetically low and no one, well very few of us, are demanding that the bar be raised. Do not confuse the message of criticism with censorship. I can only speak for myself as someone who most certainly isn’t a fan a great deal of hip-hop or literature that is produced.
Robert Farris Thompson in African Art and Motion states that in traditional African societies where art and goodness are synonymous, the critique of dance can be an art form in and of itself. The evaluation of dance is a critique whereby gender roles, style, carriage and technique are appraised. Typically, for the dance to be judged worthy of praise, the arms must move in time with the legs, the facial expression must be somber, the costume must be impeccable and the entire dance must be wildly expressive and pleasing. The critique itself becomes a part of the dance, as essential to the rhythmic movements and performance as the drum and dancer themselves. Perfection is the standard; any variance from that bedrock can lead to ridicule and shame for the artist. Why, then, can not we as Diasporic Africans, not critique the “art” of our time in an effort to make our dancers, more fluid,, our writers more eloquent, our rappers less repulsive?
When I was a preteen, my grandmother taught me how to sew. I would make an error and she would tell me to take it out and do it again. I would cry and whine that no one except myself would be able to see the flaw, that it was at least as good as what other people were wearing. I fought and complained all summer long. Every time I made a mistake, my grandmother would calmly say, “Take it out and do it again.” It was her commitment to excellence, her stringent standards that made me an exceptional seamstress. Her harsh critique wasn’t to ridicule me or belittle me, it was to make me the best I can be. We’ve lost the propensity to function optimally and settled for a reality when we condone and applaud mediocrity. In far too many instances, we should be telling authors, metaphorically, “Take it out, do it again,” when what we are saying, even with our silence, “Ehhh, it’s crappy but that’s okay.”
I don’t mind reading about the stories of those who’ve overcome. I do mind reading stories where punctuation is optional, spell check is unheard of, and paragraphs go on and on for pages. Most of the urban lit that I ATTEMPT to read aren’t stories of those who’ve risen above their surroundings, however. The stories I’ve read, especially in the erotic genre, are of super beautiful women with abnormal libidos and their big dicked lovers who almost without question are super rich. Throw in several dozen references to Escalades, Alize, and Prada and you have every erotic story on the shelves. When is enough enough? I can’t stay silent about any literature written at a fourth or fifth grade level, no matter the genre.
Robert Farris Thompson in African Art and Motion states that in traditional African societies where art and goodness are synonymous, the critique of dance can be an art form in and of itself. The evaluation of dance is a critique whereby gender roles, style, carriage and technique are appraised. Typically, for the dance to be judged worthy of praise, the arms must move in time with the legs, the facial expression must be somber, the costume must be impeccable and the entire dance must be wildly expressive and pleasing. The critique itself becomes a part of the dance, as essential to the rhythmic movements and performance as the drum and dancer themselves. Perfection is the standard; any variance from that bedrock can lead to ridicule and shame for the artist. Why, then, can not we as Diasporic Africans, not critique the “art” of our time in an effort to make our dancers, more fluid,, our writers more eloquent, our rappers less repulsive?
When I was a preteen, my grandmother taught me how to sew. I would make an error and she would tell me to take it out and do it again. I would cry and whine that no one except myself would be able to see the flaw, that it was at least as good as what other people were wearing. I fought and complained all summer long. Every time I made a mistake, my grandmother would calmly say, “Take it out and do it again.” It was her commitment to excellence, her stringent standards that made me an exceptional seamstress. Her harsh critique wasn’t to ridicule me or belittle me, it was to make me the best I can be. We’ve lost the propensity to function optimally and settled for a reality when we condone and applaud mediocrity. In far too many instances, we should be telling authors, metaphorically, “Take it out, do it again,” when what we are saying, even with our silence, “Ehhh, it’s crappy but that’s okay.”
I don’t mind reading about the stories of those who’ve overcome. I do mind reading stories where punctuation is optional, spell check is unheard of, and paragraphs go on and on for pages. Most of the urban lit that I ATTEMPT to read aren’t stories of those who’ve risen above their surroundings, however. The stories I’ve read, especially in the erotic genre, are of super beautiful women with abnormal libidos and their big dicked lovers who almost without question are super rich. Throw in several dozen references to Escalades, Alize, and Prada and you have every erotic story on the shelves. When is enough enough? I can’t stay silent about any literature written at a fourth or fifth grade level, no matter the genre.
1 comment:
I agree with your sentiments and have often been called a "hater" because I see no value in many of these works. Many of these people are just making a quick buck in a market that has opened widely in the last few years.
It's like they all read each other's books and regurgitate their own version. you would think the market would be oversaturated but you know what they say about fools and their money. The lack of creativity is a common theme I have noted in the community in general: so many people are sheep.
I attempted to read one of theose books but the bad spelling, punctuation, and sudden shifts in tense and characters threw me off. I sent the letter to one publisher and said something to the effect of why can't they give an english student from a nearby college an internship to edit their books.
I too was held to standards and hold other people to standards. I don't know if you watch cooking shows, but as tasty as the dish might be, the chefs get mega points off for blase or ugly presentations.
The other shame is that people seem to be embracing it as the only form of black lit. Mainstream has so many options, the black section in a bookstore is chock full of these books.
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