It is a beautiful Sunday in London. I awoke at 7:00am of my own accord, well-rested and refreshed. After a quick tidy of my lovely studio flat, I grabbed my new book and trotted out to Starbucks for breakfast and a good read in the sunshine. Now, I have set a certain limit for myself that I will always give a book at least seven chapters to redeem itself before I make any decisions about whether or not to discard it. The book I began this morning is Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James– it's all anyone has been talking about these days. I thought it would make for some lovely, light recreational reading.
I'm on Chapter 4 and don't worry, there is no need for a spoiler alert, I have no intention of unveiling plot points although I do discuss some elements of the book, so if you don't want to know anything about it beforehand, stop reading here.
In my attempt to avoid a critical reading of this novel, I'm able to allow myself to suspend disbelief enough to overlook the poor writing, both in style and grammar, including endless and often over-repeated adjectives; this is a feat for which I will provide two examples of what I mean:
1. "Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick– the two other part timers– and I are besieged by customers." p. 24
2. "Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am." p. 59
I can even force myself to swallow the pop culture references that will render this book outdated fairly shortly. What I can't seem to get past, however, is that I simply do not believe the characters!
There is a reason for this: I live in London, England and am, therefore, somewhat familiar with the local idiom although I grew up in the Pacific North West. The novel is set between Vancouver, Portland, and Seattle WA, with a main character who is only a bit younger than myself. However, this character seems to have a penchant for speaking like a middle-aged British woman. She refers to a green cross-walk signal as 'the green man', she drinks Twinings English Breakfast tea (not with lemon and honey as one is often offered in the States), and her friend threatens to send 'search and rescue' out to find her if she doesn't report home. Also, for a girl who is supposed to have grown up in Montesano, WA, she has a shocking understanding of the climate of Washington State and her step-father, who is also supposed to be from Montesano is a regular man's man who drinks beer, doesn't talk much, is a carpenter, and likes European soccer!?!?
It's simply too implausible! That, coupled with the fact that the love story is articulated with the worst trappings of romance-fiction (she seems to have a conniption every time the man's name is mentioned) makes me sad.
Why is it that current adult fiction seems to be as inane as it is escapist? I am by no means suggesting that there are not beautiful books out there that I am not currently reading and, of course, there are always the classics; but this is the third book I've picked up in so many months by a British author that has made me consider Sex and the City to be epically poetic writing! I will give the book it's due seven chapters, but it's not looking good...which leads me to the second part of my Sherlock Holmes-esque title: why I prefer young adult fiction.
It's just better! When I'm looking for something fun to read, I usually go to the Young Adult section. These books are written simply, yes, but elegantly, keeping in mind that teenagers and adolescents have many options for their time and will not suffer nonsense (unless it's fun). For example, The Hunger Games series, not amazing writing but a fantastic story, captivating characters, a very enjoyable read. I even love a series aimed at slightly younger readers called The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart; it encourages creative thinking, adventure, friendship, and a value for the idiosyncrasies that makes each of us different and special. Notice I haven't yet mentioned the Harry Potter series or the work of Roald Dahl, CS Lewis, and the list goes on...
I recognize that not everyone is looking to be intellectually challenged while reading a beach-side novel, but a book should at the very least be absorbing, no? A book written by an adult for other adults should be written at an adult reading level, no? Am I expecting too much?
Why are intellectual pursuits and relaxation diametrically opposed in our current society?
I've asked too many questions now. I will stop.
