Saturday, September 4, 2010

The Hipster Club for White Boys: Is Getting Reviewed by the New York Times the New Penis Envy? By Gina Frangello

Gina Frangello is the author of two critically acclaimed books of fiction, Slut Lullabies (Emergency Press 2010) and My Sister's Continent (Chiasmus 2006).  The longtime editor of the literary magazine Other Voices, she co-founded its book imprint, Other Voices Books (, in 2005, where she is now the Executive Editor.  She is also the Fiction Editor of the popular online literary collective The Nervous Breakdown (, where she contributes a regular book review column and blogs.  Her short fiction, journalism and reviews have appeared in such venues as the Chicago Tribune, the Huffington Post, Prairie Schooner, Fence, and the Chicago Reader.  She teaches at Columbia College Chicago and can be found online at

The Hipster Club for White Boys: Is Getting Reviewed by the New York Times the New Penis Envy?

Lately, there has been a flutter of activity surrounding the race-and-gender-biased reviewing practices of the New York Times Book Review.  As reported by NPR, in just over a year’s time (2009-2010), political authors covered by the NYTBR were 95% white and 87% male.  While this study was specific to books with political themes, it’s commonly held that the numbers for book reviews of fiction and creative nonfiction—while not as dire—are at least similarly skewed. 

Commercial fiction author Jodi Picoult took up this issue on Twitter a couple weeks back, tweeting her lack of surprise that the NYT raved about Jonathan Franzen’s new novel, Freedom.  Quipped Picoult: “Would love to see the NYT rave about authors who aren’t white male literary darlings.”  She later wrote a more in-depth note about her comments, adding that, while women and writers of color do get reviewed, if you are “white and male and living in Brooklyn you have better odds, or so it seems.”

I don’t have any specific stats on the NYT’s gender or race proportions . . . I do not even, though this is still treason in some circles, read the NYT anymore on a regular basis.  Therefore, it would be fair to say that I am not an authority on how their reviews are assigned (NPR reported an even bigger schism in the race/sex of reviewers than of the authors of books reviewed, incidentally.)  However, I have an instinctive sense, from years of hungrily devouring the Sunday Book Review section as the ultimate taste-making authority, that Picoult is correct to at least some significant degree.  A few years ago, the writer Elizabeth Merrick came out with statistics on gender and publishing on her blog (the now-retired Grace), analyzing the practices of the New Yorker and the New York Times in particular, stating that the New Yorker bylines were nearly 80% overall, and that NYT regularly gave 72% of their review space to male writers.  So if it is not quite true that, as Picoult claims, “for every Danticat/Diaz review, there are ten Lethems and Franzens,” it is nonetheless true that the top literary media of New York is distinctly out of step with the gender proportions of the actual human population.

In fact, this is one of the reasons I stopped following the NYT to begin with, though my reasons had less to do with gender and more to do with the kind of “celebrity” culture such New York based publications seem to reinforce.  For as I became more and more entwined in the independent publishing community, and met more and more writers, it became increasingly apparent to me that the writers I personally viewed as important, and who received much buzz elsewhere, particularly in the vibrant blogging community, were infrequently noticed by the NYT, whose coverage seemed a bit more akin to social pages in which wedding announcements were made: writers who were already New York publishing celebrities were given space they scarcely seemed to need, whereas newer writers, especially those from smaller houses, were, in any given week, given little to none.  This is, of course, a far cry from the grievance expressed by Picoult, who is a bestselling author well able to laugh her way to the bank in response to the NYT’s shunning of her commercial—i.e. lucrative—fiction, so perhaps I digress. . .

Unfortunately, as is often the case when somebody points out an inflammatory truth, the conversation from there began to veer in directions more “controversial” than “informative.”  Picoult was accused by some of griping because her own books are not frequently reviewed by the NYT, and publicly went on record saying that she did not expect them to be because her writing is “commercial,” while the NYT strongly prefers “literary” work.  Oddly, venues such as the UK’s Guardian found Picoult’s personal Twitter griping fascinating enough to report on in-depth, and then returned to the Big Scandal again when Jennifer Weiner concurred with Picoult and proceeded to cover her opinions too.  These discussions tended to focus on the fact that Picoult and Weiner write “chick lit,” to which Linda Holmes then wrote a response calling for the end of that dismissive and imprecise term—an argument with which I generally concur.  Holmes, however, did not seem to take Picoult’s own distinction between her commercial fiction and the literary work the NYT favors at face value, and at times seemed to be disputing whether there is any quantifiable difference between popular women’s fiction and literary fiction, at one point arguing that Weiner’s work is terrific and shocking because it suggests that not all women’s troubles can be “solved by a makeover and diet.”  (At the risk of being glib, if Holmes is under the impression that this is what most books by women do suggest, she may be drawing from a very narrow pool by which to measure what is either “shocking” or “terrific,” and is certainly undermining her own argument that women’s writing should be taken more seriously!)  Yet Holmes makes the valid case that such “shoe fiction,” about relentless consumerism and man hunting, is not the same genre as popular women’s fiction, which often tackles serious issues such as relationships between mothers and daughters, loss, adoption, and many other real life circumstances to which women readers can emotionally relate.  Certainly I would concur: there is a pretty big difference between Anne Tyler’s Digging to America (one of the novels cited in this debate) and The Devil Wears Prada, and the publishing industry’s lumping of such wide-ranging books by women writers into one essentially meaningless category can be maddening.

But . . . but.  Something, to me, still feels slippery or elusive in this discussion.  We seem to have gotten off the rails somewhere along the way.  Because if the NYT really does have a gender and race bias, and Picoult and Weiner happen to have high enough visibility that their pointing it out drew some much-needed attention to the matter, that does not mean that it follows that the works that should be included more frequently in the NYTBR are works like what Picoult or Weiner write, when Picoult herself consents that the NYT, for better or worse, has set itself up as something of a smartypants literary venue, not as concerned with popular or genre fiction.  In fact, popular authors ranging from Picoult to Dan Brown to Grisham to King to Rowling scarcely require the trumpeting of the NYT anyway.  These writers are millionaires or better thanks to the popular consumption of their work.  The public has spoken on the matter of their readability, and in a world where money talks, all they need to do is send out a single grievance on Twitter and the freaking Guardian is ringing from the other side of the pond, begging for a quote . . .

The issue, then, seems to have deeper, more convoluted roots.  It raises a myriad of questions that have been lost in the shuffle, but that actually feel important to address—or readdress for the still-new millennium before we go pronouncing Freedom the “novel of the century.”  Some of these questions might be:

1)   What constitutes the difference between popular and literary fiction, anyway?  Eschewing genres from “shoe fiction” to “romance” to “cozy mystery,” what is the dividing line between work that is considered “commercial” and work that is considered “literary?”  I would argue that, while subject matter easily differentiates true genre work from more literary work, this is not as true when discussing popular women’s fiction in general.  Women’s fiction writers like Sue Miller, Ann Hood, Anne Tyler and Jennifer Weiner do not necessarily write about more “shallow” material than their literary compatriots—in fact, many popular women’s novels specifically engage with deeply real and painful issues like the death of a child or spouse, divorce, traumas of the past, and other fodder not in any way quantifiably different from what is covered in work regarded as more literary or less oriented strictly towards women readers.  The differentiation, then, must lie with the writing itself.  But what are the perimeters for “literary” vs. “popular” writing?  Literary writer Jane Smiley says that much popular women’s fiction takes great risks with subject matter, but can be overlooked by the critical establishment because it is “so straightforward, and because the payoff is emotional rather than intellectual.”  In this vein, I would suggest that what most reliably differentiates popular vs. literary writing is the level of ambiguity (emotional, moral, factual) permitted, a lack of explicit explanations to serve as guideposts for the reader, more focus on nuanced characterization, psychology and atmosphere than on a flawlessly tight story arc, and more freedom to innovate with language wherein the prose is as important as the story itself, rather than merely a vehicle for relaying plot.  But are these universally held, or do they differ widely?  What standards is the NYT holding?  And who decides what makes the cut?

2)   Within perimeters of what is considered “literary” by venues that favor that type of work, do more men than women write such work?  If we are to assume (and in a world in which authors like Mary Gaitskill, Margaret Atwood, Francine Prose, Lorrie Moore, Alice Munro, Jennifer Egan, Toni Morrison, Jhumpa Lahiri, Nicole Krauss, and the list goes on, are absolutely in no danger of being referred to as “chick lit writers,” I think we must assume the following:) that what is constituted as “literary” has a much deeper meaning than whether the person who is writing it possesses a penis, then if indeed more male writers than female writers are producing said work, what is the reason for this phenomenon?

3)   What does it “take” to be a literary writer?  In our current publishing Armageddon, Ta-Nehisi Coates in The Atlantic acknowledges that publishers these days may be eschewing women and minorities because everyone is going for the jugular of the crowd-pleasing “bestseller” in order to save their own financial ass, so to speak.  If literary writers are less likely to find publishers for their work than popular or genre writers, and even when they do find publishers, are likely to be paid less, then is a certain degree of economic privilege almost a prerequisite for pursuing a highly literary career in all but exceptional cases?  If so, how might race and gender intersect with this issue?

4)   Perhaps most importantly of all, as Chris Jackson points out in The Atlantic, and as I discussed in a piece for She Writes at the onset of this year, how does the fact that male readers are so hesitant to buy books by women writers factor in to what books prestigious venues select for review?  Why are male readers so unlikely to buy books by women, when women readers do not hold the same bias?  What can review venues, editors, agents, writers, high schools teachers, the academy, and others in the literary world do to help rectify this issue, and what are the many reasons that such rectification is worthwhile, above and beyond who gets covered in the NYTBR?

And so, I would like to thank Picoult and Weiner for drawing attention to an elephant that’s been in the room for a damn long time, that many of us like to pretend departed a few decades ago but is actually still there, taking up more than its share of space   I would like to urge those interested in these issues to stop discussing the problem in terms of Picoult or Weiner having sour grapes, or even in terms of chick-lit in general.  Instead, if you are a woman, give a male reader in your life a favorite book by a female writer and urge him to read it.  If you are male, buy or review a book by a woman.  If you are a bookseller or editor, consider how you are classifying books, and whether you are categorizing them based on prose and philosophy, or by more simplistic standards like the sex of the writer or the book’s protagonist.  If you are a writer who cannot make a living writing literary fiction and have been urged by your agent, friends and family to write something “more commercial,” speak out and bring this issue to the forefront, whether or not you decide to take the suggestion.  And if you are a publisher, for god’s sake send every book you publish by a woman or writer of color (or better yet, both!) to the NYT and other media, and press them to cover these titles.  Because I think that, whether Freedom is the greatest novel of the century or just another pretty good book, we can all agree that our boy Franzen does not need a whole lot more media space.


Tanya Egan Gibson said...

What a great post! This is one of those times when I want to comment on something because it's terrific, but felt like it was so comprehensive that there's nothing I could possibly add by commenting. Except, of course, for "great post." Which I've now typed--twice--because it's that good. (I'm thinking I'm going to ask a bunch of my male friends which female authors they've read lately. It would be interesting to know which, if any, female authors catch their interest and why.)

Gina Frangello said...

Thanks so much, Tanya! Yes, I was recently shocked to discover how few of my male students had ever read Toni Morrison, which I had considered a "given"--I never assign Beloved because I think everyone will already have read it. So now, this term, I'm assigning it.

Rebecca Rasmussen said...

ah Beloved -- that's worth considering again :)

Karen said...

I second the slippery nature of the discussion. Egos always confuse value and worth. Many are understandably insulted when it becomes apparent they are not valued because the self ordained status quo appears to say what has worth and what does not.

All labels are limiting. That is the purpose of a label-to confine a thing-ostensibly so that it may be understood. Rarely does it work this way! "chick lit" clearly is meant to demean work and infer 'lighter' minds will gravitate to it.

I heard Carol Shields (Stone Diaries, Unless) say something remarkable-she dealt with themes not labels. A theme would never limit one's story. Because her books dealt with the lives of women, the NYT reviewer kept trying to put her into the 'chick lit' category! She also said it didn't help their esteem of her that she didn't write until she was 40.

As a side note the NYT only published a review of Shields work AFTER it had won the Booker and been selected for the Pulitzer.

It's wonderful to live a life where-in we do not agree to limitations assigned to us by others. No matter how big and powerful they say they are. There are many Carol Shields out there-lets talk about them.

Rebecca Rasmussen said...

this is a wonderful comment. I don't know if you are aware that Carol Shields is an author I love more than anyone else. I love what she said about themes, and I also love that she wrote so much in her life about happiness and joy, along with the other more dire emotions. Often reviewers, while they admired her sentences, felt her writing was "light" somehow, which they saw as lesser than the heavier stuff. I see her light as brilliance!

Karen said...

:-) Rebecca.

I love Carol too. I spent a short time with her in 93-94 when she was in Berkley.
Yes, gifted and such a wonderful example of shining her light. It is brilliance to shine when everyone else whines :-)

In the end, we can only experience and transform our sorrows to the capacity we can be a container for joy.

Carol said she didn't understand the fascination for suffering, how that seemed to be an art some sought.

Rebecca Rasmussen said...

I am completely in-love with Carol's ability to portray happiness in her writing and it sounds like in her life. I would have loved to know her as you did :) I think her spirit comes through her writing very clearly. She is my number one writing influence -- I love one of her last stories,"Segue" because she is so honest, so dimensional, so alive, even when she was sick. "If it weren't for my particular circumstances I would be happy," I always remember the lovely, often cheeky way she expressed love, loss, joy, and sorrow.

Thank you for sharing that with me, K. You are a wonderful soul. :)

Richard said...

Excellent piece, Gina. I think you ask great questions and point out how difficult it is to pin down exactly what Weiner and Picoult are trying to say. Are they attempting to identify the difference between literary and commercial fiction? Between male and female writers in general? Are female writers less likely to be considered literary than male writers, regardless of subject matter?

I'd also suggest that even this attempt to narrow the population of possible literary novels,

"I would argue that, while subject matter easily differentiates true genre work from more literary work..."

is another slippery slope because plenty of genre writers have written novels considered literary. Dennis Lehane's Mystic River is a possible example. Conversely, literary authors such as Justin Cronin have written "departure" novels, that would be easily considered genre work if not for their reputations and the quality of writing. And plenty of classic literature could be saddled with a genre label if one were so inclined.

I'm not sure at the end of the day that any of us can say exactly what constitutes a literary novel, except that we know it when we see it. And what explanation could be more subjective than that?

In the end the labels shouldn't matter all that much. If you're writing a novel with the express intent of playing to a certain audience, you're likely to create something less than your best work. All we can do is write the best stories we can and then attempt to market them in the way most likely for them to reach a wide audience. Because if you don't sell, you may not publish anything else. At least not without footing the bill yourself.

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