Trying Too Hard

I'm not the right fit for reading literary fiction. Nothing against it; it's just not for me. While I appreciate some vivid description, I can only take it in small doses before I get bored and just want to know what's going on in the story.

One of my weaknesses as a writer is description. I always have to remind myself to include some. I think that problem may stem from the fact that I pay close attention to what people say and don't say--their facial cues, how they say something that could be innocuous, but really isn't. That's a "me" problem. I had to be hyper-vigilant as a kid growing up due to my dysfunctional family, so I was always watching. Dialogue is my strong suit; description, not so much.

In my latest novel, whose title will remain unmentioned because I'm sick to death of plugging it, I had a scene in which the MC was making a long drive from Wyoming back to Nashville, and absolutely nothing was happening along the way. I don't even know why I included that passage, but in the interest of congruity it seemed odd to simply have her pop up in Nashville without mentioning how she got there. So if I was intent on describing the drive, I had to remind myself to at least describe what she saw along the way. I barely succeeded. "Something needs to be a metaphor for something else" became my mantra. Describing snow banks gradually dissipating as she drove further south was akin to...? The cobwebs in her head clearing? I don't know! It was just a freakin' drive! This is why I could never write literary fiction.

I read a Substack post tonight that reminded me of a) why I can't write in that genre; and b) my dislike for it in general. Titled, "Literary Fiction Has Lost the Plot", the article included the opening pages of two soon-to-be traditionally published novels. Those cited passages are exactly why I would toss a book across the room in disgust. Oh, they're very descriptive, so much so that a reader would have no idea what was going on. I like a good turn of phrase as much as the next guy, but not seventy of them in one sentence. Folks, not everything needs to be described! And not everything is a metaphor. Some things are just things. Get on with it!

The article's author writes: "But I notice that Emma Cline seems bent on describing things in a way no one has described them before, whether or not she needs to. We keep veering off into detours of Highly Original Description, warranted neither by the story nor by the thing being described..."

(No offense to the author of this book, which I will never read. It found a publisher, after all.)

The middle of February. The flat, sad month. Like a house when no one is home. 

Per the article: 

"When I read passages like this, it’s as if I can hear the writer’s internal monologue as she pauses at the keyboard, searching for the next juicy phrase:

The middle of February. [Okay, time to evoke what February feels like. Should I go for a splashy adjective? No—how about two ordinary adjectives in an unusual combination.] The flat, sad month. [That’s good. But is it good enough? Let’s keep going.] Like a house when no one is home. [Nailed it.]"

I don't hate this; I just don't understand it. The first descriptor is fine, but I've never thought of February as a house when no one is home. What does that even mean?

I view this condition as Trying Too Hard. 

My spouse is currently in a phase where he's enjoying AI-written YouTube stories. My suspicion is that the YouTube creator told AI exactly how long the story should be, and thus it takes half an hour to get to the point. Every single thing is described: every sound, every background noise, every character's gestures, every restaurant utensil, every clink of champagne glasses. A character stands up; everyone else at the table expresses shock, dismay, embarrassment, what-have-you. Each of them steals a glance at the person being addressed. Crash! Someone back in the kitchen drops a serving dish. On the street, a car horn sounds. 

Oh, my God! 

How long are literary novels? 500,000 words?

I would bore myself to death trying to write like the author cited above.

When I read something like her passage, I immediately suspect that the author is trying to impress her friends...or impress strangers...or both...with her cleverness. Call me nuts, but the point of a story isn't to call attention to the writer. The writer, in fact, should be invisible.

Important: I'm definitely not accusing this author of using AI. It just reads like something AI would write. That's not a plus.

One, of course, also doesn't want to take the opposite tack and write sparse. That would come off as taking orders from a military general. 

Every sentence exactly the same length. I fumbled for my red sweater. I noticed it had a long snag. I tossed it aside in disgust. My day was not starting well. I considered going back to bed.

Happy medium, people! And by "people", I mean me. It's hardly as if all my words are beautiful daisies. I second-guess myself a lot. I fail a lot.

What do I know? Literary fiction stands as the most common genre to get a publishing contract in 2026. That's not a nod to popularity, necessarily. Most traditionally published books fare about as well as a mid-level self-published one. 

If the above example is any indication, count me among the non-buyers.