BACK TO THE BOOKS

by Sheila Connolly

If there's any upside to this broken limb, it's that I finally get to catch up on my reading.  It seems odd that a writer doesn't have time to read, but it's true.  I mean reading for my own pleasure.  Over the past couple of years I've read for two contests, and that meant I looked at some or all of a couple of hundred books (and tossed a few at the wall with some choice comments, the kindest of which was, "why is this piece of @#% in print at all?").

And all the while I was collecting books, to read "someday."  Books that other people recommended, books that sounded interesting, books I stumbled over on a shelf in a musty used bookstore somewhere.  Books that I need for research (I have not one but two very useful books on how to raise dairy cattle). Books I might need for research someday.  The end result was that my To Be Read piles (plural) had long since passed three feet high--each.  But now that I'm spending a lot of time sliding around on my bottom half has enabled me to reacquaint myself with all those hopeful, patient acquisitions.

Disaster was narrowly averted when The Break happened.  Of course I had carried enough reading material with me to see me through two very long plane trips, and I planned to acquire more in Ireland--one of my worst fears is to be caught somewhere with nothing to read.  (Sorry, I haven't yet obtained any form of ereader, which under the circumstances would have been very handy.)  Let me tell you, small, crowded bookstores and clumsy crutches don't mix well.  Which explains why I found myself reading Twilight, by Stephenie Meyer, something I had successfully avoided since it came out (missed all the movies, too).  But there it was, abandoned by some former occupant of our rented cottage, and what's more, it was nice and fat.  I enjoyed it more than I expected, but then, I couldn't afford not to, since all the other books were a lot skinnier and wouldn't last as long. 

I scraped together enough reading matter to survive the trip, namely by sending my husband into the bookstores with specific instructions.  He came up with some good stuff, including a few Irish writers I requested.  And then we came back.

Now, having received strict instructions to keep all weight off the injured leg for six weeks (arrgghhh), I can't cook, wash dishes, clean house, do laundry, or even go up and down stairs easily--all of which suddenly opened up vast swathes of time to (gasp) read!  Whatever I wanted! Heaven!

Deciding what to read, when you have multiple choices, is always an interesting process.  Am I in the mood for something noirish and grim?  Or something light and fluffy?  Do I really want to read another mystery, or is there something else that appeals?  Funny or intense?  Long or short?

Actually I started with Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.  I've read everything else he's written, and this was getting soooo much media attention, so I bought it and...it languished on the pile.  Suddenly had the time to read it, all whatever-hundred pages of it.  It's easy to describe it as "dysfunctional family" and leave it at that, but that somehow doesn't explain why each and every character is both peculiar and believable and you just can't stop reading.  I think I know at least two of the people.

Then Brunonia Barry's second book The Map of True Places.  I loved The Lace Reader, and I wanted to see if the second one lived up to it.  Pretty close.  Oh, look, another dysfunctional family.  Maybe there's a thread here and I didn't even notice:  I want to read about other people's problems, to distract me from my own?

I'd pre-ordered Sara Henry's new first book, Learning to Swim, and forgotten entirely until it showed up in my mailbox.  That was after the New York Times review appeared (unknown writer!  First book!).  Confession:  Sara and I bonded during a long and convoluted evening at Bouchercon in Baltimore a couple of years ago, and I've been looking forward to the book every since.  It does not disappoint.

I treated myself to The Rope That Strings the Hangman's Bag, since I enjoyed The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.  I think Flavia has become some sort of national reader litmus test:  you either love her or find her wildly improbable.  I love her, and identify with her.

I'm sitting on not one but two John Connolly books, but I want to be in the right mood to read them, because there are some dark corners in his mind.  I've also got two books by Susan Cheever, about Concord and Louisa May Alcott, that I've been hoarding for a special occasion.  Is this the time?

I could go on, but I'm sure you don't want to hear the entire roster of my stacks of books.  But since I've been looking for silver linings, the freedom to read as much as I want is a true luxury, and I'm going to take advantage of it.

Readers in a Rut

Sandra Parshall

“I stopped enjoying her books years ago, but I still buy them and read them.”

“His last half-dozen books have been poorly written and boring – but I can’t seem to stop myself from buying them, even though I know I’m going to hate them.”

How many times have you heard people say this sort of thing? How many times have you seen similar statements posted on DorothyL? How many times have you admitted to buying books by authors you should have given up on years ago?

I’m trying to understand why readers buy, and read, then complain about books they know in advance they won’t like. Do they have such ecstatic memories of an author’s first few good books that they keep hoping she or he will suddenly start writing well again when all the evidence points to a permanent decline? Any author can be forgiven one weak book – no one is consistently brilliant, after all – but I have so little time to read that a writer who disappoints me repeatedly has to do something spectacular to win me back. I feel very much alone in taking this hard line, though.

If you doubt that American readers are creatures of habit, just take a look at last year’s overall bestsellers list, as reported in a recent issue of Publishers Weekly. Among the top six books of the year – those that sold more than a million copies each – is only one by a new author: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski, which came in second with 1.3 million copies sold even though it wasn’t published until September of 2008. The other books at the top are (1) The Appeal by John Grisham, (3) The Host by Stephanie Meyer, which is still near the top of the bestseller lists after 48 weeks, (4) Cross Country by James Patterson, (5) The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks, and (6) Fearless Fourteen by Janet Evanovich.

Moving down the list, to books that sold more than 600,000 but fewer than a million copies last year, we find (7) Christmas Sweater, a first novel by conservative media personality Glenn Beck, who was already a known quantity because of his books of opinion on social issues; (8) Scarpetta by Patricia Cornwell; (9) Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz; (10) Plum Lucky by (again) Janet Evanovich; (11) 7th Heaven by (again) James Patterson; (12) Sail by (again!) James Patterson; (13) A Good Woman by Danielle Steele; (14) Divine Justice by David Baldacci; and (15) The Gate House by Nelson DeMille.

One new writer in the entire lot -- and Wroblewski was blessed with Oprah’s imprimatur, which drove sales of Edgar Sawtelle.

A total of 155 novels sold more than 100,000 hardcover copies each last year. Of those, four were by James Patterson, three by Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb, four by Iris Johansen, three by Danielle Steele. The following authors all had two bestselling hardcovers each in 2008: Janet Evanovich, Patricia Cornwell, Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark (they co-authored one book), Dean Koontz, David Baldacci, Laurell K. Hamilton, Jonathan Kellerman, Stephen King, John Sandford, Clive Cussler, Debbie Macomber, Stuart Woods, Robert Parker, Jeffery Deaver, and Jack Higgins. Twenty-one authors wrote 47 of the 155 novels that sold more than 100,000 copies.

In paperback, these same authors sold even more copies of more novels, some of them reprints of books originally published years ago. Roberts/Robb had the most paperback bestsellers in 2008 – nine in mass market pb and six in trade pb. James Patterson had a total of nine.

Almost all of the other books on both hardcover and paperback lists were written by long-established authors.

I’m not saying these people produce bad books, or that their fans are automatons who buy blindly even when they don’t anticipate enjoying the novels they purchase. All of the top-selling writers have legions of devoted fans who love every word they write. I realize that the millions of books they sell are helping their publishers stay in business. But the sameness of the names at the top of the bestsellers list, year after year after year, does suggest that many readers lack a sense of adventure and would rather buy a book with a familiar name on it, whether it’s a good book or not, than try something new. Publishers know that, and count on it when they put out multiple books by the same writers each year.

In addition to Wroblewksi, one other newcomer stood out last year: Brunonia Barry, whose The Lace Reader sold more than 160,000 copies. I refuse to believe that only two new writers published novels last year that were good enough to engage the minds and hearts of a broad range of readers. I think a lot of wonderful books fail to sell in large numbers because the publishers don’t promote them and habit-bound readers are reluctant to spend money on books by writers with unfamiliar names. Yet those same readers will automatically buy a familiar writer’s book – even when they expect it to disappoint them.

Will somebody please explain this quirk of human nature to me? I am sincerely baffled.

Do you buy books by writers you no longer enjoy? Why do you do it? What would it take to persuade you to spend your money instead on a new author’s book? Have you discovered any new authors in the last couple of years whose books are now on your automatic-buy list?