Comfortably Numb

I recently finished Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, and in truth, it really doesn’t matter if you’ve read it or not, or if you even know who Zadie Smith is — the point is, I hated it, so don’t bother. I mean, bother if you want, it’s not like I’m some kind of authority, obviously, it’s just that for me, it was exhausting watching Smith try desperately to prove to us how smart, how innovative, how literary she is. It makes me tired. She makes me tired. A lot of things like this make me very, very tired.

Don’t get me wrong — I love books. I adore many classics. (No, I don’t love Lolita.) But there are some modern writers for whom a more literary style is natural (Margarat Atwood, Salman Rushdie … hell, even Michael Chabon at times, but do not get me started on Ayelet Waldman), and there are others for whom it appears contrived out of some sort of insecurity or desire to prove to the world that they are smart. Smarter than you, in fact. Booker Prize-smart, and do you want to make something of it? And it’s so unnecessary, you know? If it doesn’t fit you, write in a way that does. I’m quite certain that no one would consider Carl Hiaasen to be great literature, and yet there are moments of hilarious brilliance on nearly every page of the very first novel of his I picked up. (Skin Tight, if you’re interested. It was a TwoBusy recommendation, and a good one at that. Yes, yes, it’s frothy and fluffy and it’s basically a murder mystery, but it’s very smartly written and illustrates my point nicely.)

And also, hey, guess what? I’m smart! Extremely smart! And I know it, too, oh yes, I do. There are lots of super-smart people out there, imagine that! And many of us could spend a lot of time every day proving to everyone how smart we are, and I, too, could overwrite some extremely dramatic study on race and class in modern academia (perhaps I’m delusional, but I really believe I could if I were forced to, and I think a lot of people could. Mine would be bad, but how is that any different from “On Beauty”?). It’s highly likely that I would be vomiting the entire time, because it’s just not how I … well, I think, given the point I’m about to make, roll would be the appropriate term here.

Let me back up: I place high value on comfort and a general down-to-earth approach to life, work, and everything in-between. For me, there is no greater virtue than accessibility. I want to be comfortable, and I want people to be comfortable around me. Perhaps this speaks volumes about my people-pleasing nature, but some of the questions I constantly ask myself are: Do I make other people feel comfortable? Do people feel like they can be themselves around me, say anything, do anything, be anything? Do people feel like they can say something stupid, or announce “Dude, I do not get it. Not at all, for the love of GOD, explain what you mean?”

And the thing is, I mean it. I’m flattered when people feel comfortable enough to say something dumb, ask a stupid question, admit that they thought that monotonous was pronounced moan-a-tonus (sorry, Allison, it’s just too good, I can’t get over it! I can’t! I LOVE IT! I dream about it!) Hell, I’m flattered when people feel at ease enough around me to fart around me, because they know I won’t judge them, although I may ask you to roll down the window, if you don’t mind.

(Unfortunately, I live with three creatures who take this sentiment to heart, but mercifully only one of them stares at her butt in amazed wonder at the glorious sound and odor afterwards.)

I approach writing in very much the same vein. I’ve never — not once, for one moment, in my whole life — wanted to be a Serious Writer. I assure you if (when?) I finish writing a book, it will never be nominated for a single literary prize, unless that prize is given out by some sort of raggy woman’s magazine. In fact, I would bet the farm on some form of lowbrow (gasp!) chick lit coming out of these fingers o’ mine, friends. I mean, I’m not going to start pitching Harlequin Romance, but I’m not intending to write any kind of great literature to last for the ages. It’s just not me, and I’m perfectly okay with that, and I sort of wish a lot of other smart people would take that approach — people who actually have the stamina to finish a book, unlike yours truly — because life is too damn short, and also, I’m running out of decent books to read.

Did this sound preachy? I didn’t mean it to sound preachy. It’s just that the Zadie Smith, she pissed me off. And also? She’s not funny. What is this “laugh-out-loud funny” stuff I read on the jacket? The person who wrote that must have been wearing very itchy tweed pants and smoking a pipe with expensive tobacco in a library full of pretentious leather-bound volumes. In his spare time, he lounges about in a smoking jacket and ponders life, the universe and everything in it, because only such a person would find her that amusing. She’s NOT FUNNY! She takes herself so seriously! THAT IS NOT FUNNY AT ALL.

*Pink Floyd

25 comments November 26th, 2007