. Spinning .

Check out the story one-liners on this list from the New York Times of the 100 Notable Books of the Year.

Now is it me or do the non-fiction books, in general, sound more exciting than the fiction–despite the fact that McCarthy and Marquez are there–?

Why would the freedom of the imagination allowed in fiction, good writing notwithstanding since we should in this day and age assume that again, in general, most of these notables would be well written, not be more dramatic and enticing than non-fiction?  When we can not only create a character that falls off a cliff and lives but goes on to conquer new worlds do we not write about it?  Is our imagination becoming more sterile, more reality based (is there a correlation with the upsurge in reality based tv?) while we seek the most outrageous, the most telling in our real life heroes and thieves? 

This thought seems to tie in with a previous post referring to Michael’s at 2 Blowhards on the state of the novel.  Maybe there is a reason why fewer people are fiction-oriented.  From some of the descriptions on this list, I can well see why.  Many of these are just remakes of the same old, same old, which confirms the 8 or 37 basic plot theory, but where is the flight of fancy, the impossible dream, the escape, or the special world of man’s own making where he can control and yet lets the reader go on to explore further by using the right side of the brain? 

It is curious, no?

Yet even as I read Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace it bothers me that this is a fictionalized account of a true event.  This is a personal flaw of mine I realize; creating a story around fact while including some fact–after all, Atwood is making up all these conversations and even the character of Dr. Simon Jordan who is the antagonist to the real Grace Marks’ protagonist.  Reminds me a bit of the mix of cartoon and human flesh in Who Killed Roger Rabbit?   I find it ironic that while being given a diverse and contradictory view of Grace within the story by those who have supposedly known her and perceived her one way or another, we are given yet another "not faithfully true" view by this fictionalized story, and will create yet another based on everyone’s given thoughts (of real and unreal characters) to come up with our own version of the lady.

The success of Alias Grace and its appeal may be a culmination of what strikes me about the N.Y. Times Most Notables list:  Reality can be more intriguing, but with the freedom of fiction you would have the best of both worlds.  I believe that is why Stephen King’s stories were so intense; being home-based New Hampshire, real world and real lives but with one small thing out of place. 

Very interesting post at 2 Blowhards titled "Book-length Fiction?" regarding the value of the novel, its length versus short story and the time it demands from the reader as well as what the reader demands from it. 

Michael makes the statement:

Watching a film, you know that the camera will cut away to someone else soon. You’re certain that the location will change. There’ll always be something or somebody new to look at and listen to.

By contrast, on-the-page fiction offers nothing but the author’s words — nothing but the author and his/her skill and talent, really. Just that one person … Yet, despite this fact, a novel-author also wants to stake a claim on the reader’s full attention for, say, 15 hours. Whoa, Nelly. In real life, I don’t know a soul who can hold my attention for such a long time. Yet that’s what a typical novel is: a 15 hour long performance by one person — snoozola, man. I’m also struck by how arrogant it seems for any artist to say, "Here’s the deal. I’m going to tell you a tale, and it’s going to last for 15 hours. And for those 15 hours you are going to have nothing but my imagination, my craft, and my voice to enjoy." I’m not sure I want to be in the same room with such a person, let alone pay close attention to him.

"Yet that’s what a typical novel is: a 15 hour long performance by one person"  —  Yet as I have learned, it is the reader that participates by deciphering the story based on his or her own experience and bent.  This is something we do, but not to such an extent with film, mainly because we cannot stop or pause the action to ponder it as we can simply by bookmarking and closing a book and setting it aside–or at least I have lately (witness my month-long dissertation on 100 Years of Solitude here at Spinning last month). 

Though some novels, in particular of the mystery or romance genre (Atwood’s Alias Grace aside, which while partaking of both, becomes more classic literature by virtue of Atwood’s writing) ask only the time taken in reading, many beg deeper thinking to separate the layers of meaning only yielding to perceptive reasoning.  DeLillo’s The Body Artist was only 120 pages; certainly a very long short story and yet if skimmed at normal reading rate, maybe 2 hours of reader time would be taken but very little of interest would be gleaned.  A lady loses her husband to suicide and handles it by attempting conversation with an entity who may or may not be real, then continues on her way after rolling the experience into one of her body performances.  While the book was not one of my favorites, it did indeed evoke annoyance and attempts to understand both what the author was saying and its relevance and credibility.

I think that people read fiction of any length for as many reasons as there are people of different personalities:  To satisfy, to entertain, to nudge one’s mind to thinking, to get lost in someone else’s world, to titillate, to escape, to have something to discuss with others.  But the posting at 2 Blowhards, and the comments made to it certainly are worth reading–for whatever purpose.