In yesterday’s post, I talked about what a disappointment Knives Out was for me. I want to stress that it’s not a terrible movie–well, it is and isn’t a bad movie for me. But I’m not going to reiterate that in this post beacuse I want to move onto the two (white male cishet, I presume) writers that I can’t get into. One, I don’t like and don’t care that I don’t like. The other, I don’t like, and it’s really to my sorrow. I’rll start with the first and then move to the second because I’d like to end on a somewhat up note. You’ll see what I mean when I get there.
The first author is Stephen King. I’ve read excerpts of several of his book, but only one in toto. That would be The Dead Zone, and I read it at the recommendation of the person I was boning at the time. Who, yes, happened to be a cishet white dude himself.
Side note: To cishet white dudes out there. Read a book by a woman. Any woman. Do it once a year. Expand. Your. Fucking. Horizons. Is it enough? Not nearly, but it’s funny (depressing) how many cishet white dudes don’t even do that much. If 99% of the things you enjoy has been created by other cishet white dudes, I just can’t with you.
This is an anecdote I have told several times over. When I was in college and realized that there was a world outside of dead white men, I started reading books by women of color, specifically Asian women. There was a time when that was all I read (except for class stuff, of course). I made no bones about the fact that I was only reading Asian women. I had a white dude tell me that was as discriminatory as only reading dead white men.
My response? One, yes, yes it is. That takes the winds out of so many sails! When they want a fight and you agree with them. It’s so much fun! And, yes, of course it’s discriminatory, but he said it as if it was a bad thing. I did not argue with him about the politics of deliberately immersing yourself in a culture that is in the minority (and, need I remind him, my own goddamn fucking culture) and how it’s very different than excluding cultures (which is what most people do, even if it’s not a conscious choice) by only focusing on the majority.
Secondly and more importantly, I told him that I bet all the money I had that I had read more dead white dudes than he had read any people of color. Ididn’t even narrow it to Asian women. I was generous and said any people of color. He did not take me up on that bet, and he had very little to say after that.
I still don’t read white men unless they are highly recommended to me. And I would still bet I’ve read more white men than most white men have read any people of color. (Basing all this as an American. So American white men. And probably British and Canadian white men, too). In fact, British people like to be smug about racism in America, but at least we try to deal with it (because we have to. It’s very much in our face). So many Brits blithely claim there isn’t racism in Britain. Which is utter bullshit.
Anyway.
Back to Stephen King. From the snippets I’ve read and the one book I’ve finished, I do not find anything engaging about his prose. Or his narratives. Or, well, anything else about his writing. I don’t like his writing, and I’m comfortable with that. It leaves me cold, and it’s not for me. Fine.
The other guy I’d like to mention is, sigh, Terry Pratchett. He is a darling and a favorite of so many learned people. I have heard all the ravings, and I have wanted desperately to like him. He should be right up my alley. Fantasy that is smart, witty, and political? Hell, yes!
I…just could not get into him. And, believe me, I’ve tried. And tried. And tried again. I’ve read the first third of Monstrous Regiment. I tried to read Mort. I’ve dipped into other Discworld books. I have not gotten past a third of any of them, except one. That would be Good Omens, and that would only be beacuse I adore Neil Gaiman.
I feel like it’s a failing on my part that I have tried to read maybe five of Pratchett’s books and just could not get into any of them. I have heard the ravings about how amazing they are. I have tried over and over again, and I just don’t dig his writing. I don’t think it’s bad, but it’s just not engaging to me. I should be fine with that, but it’s yet another thing that I’m missing out on because my brain is weird.
At some point, I may try again. I am cheerful about the knowledge that I don’t like Stephen King. If it wasn’t for the love he gets in the RKG Discord, I probably wouldn’t think twice about it. Terry Pratchett, on the other hand, will probably cause me sorrow until the day I die for good.
I know it’s ok that I don’t like what other peo.ple like. For the most part, I am comfortable with the reasons I don’t like that popular thing. But in this case, I definitely know it’s me. I should like it, but I just don’t.
It goes to show that art is so subjective. What a person likes or doesn’t like can’t be objectively measured much of the time. Which is why reviews should be taken with a grain of salt. I mean, there are things that you can be objective about in a review, but for the most part, the nitty-gritty differences are based on a feeling.
I should add that, yes, you can talk about the technical aspects of a work, but that’s not what I take into account when I decide if something is art that moves me. And I acknowledge that’s my bias. I have more to say on this subject, but I’m done fro the day.