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YEAH, BUT I SAW THE MOVIE...

Our Intrepid Columnist Addresses the Changing Reading Habits of Today

By Christina Hamlett

It was the occasion of my 12 year old nephew Eugene's first week of summer vacation, a good time, I thought, to introduce him to one of the favorite pleasures of my own youthful summer times past: checking out the maximum allowable number of books and rushing home to read them. Long before Disney's musical adaptation of Beauty and the Beast, I was already a Belle-in-the-making, eagerly scarfing up selections from the neighborhood bookmobile and pestering the driver each week if he had anything new on the shelves. Had there been a growling, enchanted prince who offered to give me carte blanche to his castle library, I'm pretty sure I would have ditched my parents in a heartbeat.

Our footsteps echoed across the marble floor, adding to the ambiance of a potentate's realm. The head librarian gave us a nod, a wordless communion of kindred spirits that we had been deemed worthy to enter the Chamber of Dewey Decimals and, thereby, be enlightened.

I smiled when I saw Eugene's face light up, his attention now riveted on something across the room.

"Cool!" he exclaimed as he pointed toward the object of his glee. "They've got Internet!"

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Sadly, the generation of Eugenes is distancing itself further and further from the experience of reading good old fashioned books. Especially books printed on good old fashioned stuff called paper and sandwiched between two covers.

I recall the disdain I held for high school peers who, when asked if they'd read a certain book, would reply, "Neh, I'm waiting for the movie to come out." These were the same lazy souls who, when actually forced to study the classics for a midterm test, would skim through the high points of purloined Cliff Notes and consider themselves worldly.

Today, the more "evolved" reply to the question of reading these works is likely to be, "Tale of Two Cities? Have they got it in X-Box?” For those whose need for faking literary prowess is more immediate, the Internet has spawned TheBookSpoiler.com, as well as no less than five dozen term paper services that will happily trade your credit card number for an expertly written thesis complete with footnotes and bibliographies.

And who are the authors penning these summations, you ask? None other than those of us pre-Googlites who had to sit down and read The Great Gatsby and Beowulf up close and personal in an era long, long ago.

Even members of my own generation, of course, are not above the duplicity of attending book club chats just for the Merlot, the Brie and the “smart set” camaraderie, nodding thoughtfully in the right places so as to escape the detection of never having delved past the dust jacket. Oddly, the tradition of reading a book so as to be able to discuss with others its fine points and symbolism has segued to the circumstance of using it as little more than a trendy calling card to gain admittance to relational encounters that provide free food. Vanishing all too fast is the comfort of discovering one’s favorite novel—especially the obscure—on the shelf of a new friend, an unspoken affirmation of common ground and future sympatico.

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"Have you considered writing this as a short story or a novel?" I ask.

The reaction I get is much the same as if I were to hold a cross up to a vampire. For the aspiring screenwriters who seek out my critique services and studio recommendations, it's apparently anathema to even remotely hint that their stories would be better served by a different medium. Their work, they insist, is way too “huge” to be confined to the mere pages of something as pedestrian as a book.

My candid reply that the human imagination--unlocked by the joy of reading--is far more expansive than any product of Spielberg, Lucas and Cameron combined is an argument that can't seem to be won.

“No one writes books anymore,” my clients inform me, despite the fact that Barnes and Noble continues to rotate in new stock at least twice a week that is obviously being written by someone. “Besides,” they add, “it takes too long to read them.” Why commit to 400 pages of print narrative, they’ve rationalized, when you can see the same thing at the Cineplex in 2 hours plus previews of upcoming attractions?

The information superhighway, it seems, hasn’t factored in the option of off-ramps to libraries and bookstores. We live in an age when we want instant knowledge, instant entertainment, and instant awareness spelled out for us rather than taking the leisurely backroads of contemplation and casting the roles of hero and villain from within our own memory banks.

The observation that writing books has become as archaic as reading them brings to mind a disturbingly accurate scene from playwright Donald Margulies latest comedy, Brooklyn Boy. Swept up in the euphoria of finally making the bestseller list, lead character Eric Weiss finds himself in a potentially compromising situation with a young female fan from an L.A. booksigning. She ardently gushes that she’s impressed with people who still have the discipline to write novels, likening his “dying” craft to that of clockmakers.

Are we approaching a juncture, I wonder, where knowing exactly what hour it is will become more gratifying than appreciating the work that goes into the creation of the timepiece itself?

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Had Tolstoy started pitching his plots in the 21st century, would his work have ever seen daylight? “Listen, Leo,” his agent would say, “you’ve got some good stuff here but it’s just not talking to the masses, y’ know what I mean? We’ve gotta throw in more sex, some car crashes, and for God’s sake, what’s with all these complicated Russian names? Vasili Kuragin, for instance. I’m thinking we go with something straightforward like ‘Brad’. And how about this Princess Bolkonskaya character? Listen, royalty’s always a hot sell but let’s say we call her ‘Jen’…”

Back when I first began writing novels, I was paired with an agent who insisted that I focus all my energy on works of romance. Why? Because it was the only thing she felt comfortable selling. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I asked, having built my career on the premise that it was the agent’s job to find a profitable niche for one’s talent rather than dictating that works be produced in cookie-cutter fashion to fill existing market demand.

Sadly, her stance was — and is — a reflection of the American publishing industry. The merging of major houses in the past 10-15 years has resulted in fewer entry-level opportunities for new writers and mid-list authors than ever before. One needs only to follow today’s trade magazines to realize that the bulk of advertising goes toward the heavy-hitters who already have an established following — Stephen King, Danielle Steele, Tom Clancy.

The purposeful exclusion of “little guys” has accordingly sparked a rise in the number of independent publishing houses, university presses, e-book publishers, and authors who opt to spend their own money for the sake of getting their books in the hands of readers. A similar trend can be found in the motion picture industry, reflected in the burgeoning crop of independent producers, Internet mini-movie sites, and regional film festivals.

The bottom line, however, remains the same for both venues: the lion’s share of the money will still be derived from the pockets of those with the shortest attention spans and the least desire to digest any meaning beyond the immediate.

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I’m sure you’ve heard the silly tale why bumblebees can’t fly. Because of their squat, fuzzy bodies, short little wings and aerodynamically-challenged posture, scientists have determined that it is impossible for them to ever get off the ground. Fortunately for those of us who love spring flowers in bloom, bumblebees never got this memo and have been blissfully flying around in spite of themselves.

The same can be said of any writer who has ever sat a keyboard and typed the first magical words of his or her personal journey: Chapter One.

“Statistics and obstacles be damned,” they tell themselves. “I’ve got something to say and I’m going to say it!” These are the souls who have eschewed the myth that you need to have a block of 5-10 unobstructed years to actually start writing something. Instead, they follow the mantra that if you only type 1 double-spaced page per day and firmly stick to this schedule for a full year, you will have a 365 page novel to show for it at the end. They also recognize that people always manage to get up early, go to bed late, or steal extra time for activities they deem to be fun…and yet find innumerable ways to procrastinate when it comes to pursuing the very craft for which they’d like to become an overnight success.

No one ever starts writing The Great American Novel with the mindset that no one will ever read it. They start writing — and they keep writing — because the act itself is a modest step toward immortality. Whether their tome someday gets mass produced in paperback or is found in a chest in the attic a century from now by their descendants, the words themselves transcend time and speak to the audience as clearly as if their originator were still alive and chatting across the table.

From the dawn of mankind, there has been an insatiable quest to memorialize our days, our deeds, and our dreams. Kudos and critical acclaim certainly weren’t the end-game of our cave dwelling predecessors. They simply wanted to document that a bunch of them ran after a big beast one day and threw spears at it. Obviously one of them — the future writer in the group — felt this was a noteworthy enough event to preserve for the next tenants of the cave. Lo and behold, these primitive works continue to speak to us a million years later, their rudimentary plots of man versus nature still intact.

As language evolved and story-saving became a more portable medium, so, too, did the Art of writing imitate the politics and passions of contemporary Life. The timeless themes of reward, revenge and escape continue to resonate, regardless of whether their authors are paupers or presidents, rogues or saints, cynics or starry-eyed romantics.

We know their stories — and yours — because of the wits and perseverance to write them down, regardless of how many people might have advised along the way, “It’s never going to fly.”

* * * * *

Could anyone but Clark Gable have played Rhett Butler? Certainly Margaret Mitchell thought so. Pay close heed to her description of Scarlett’s soulmate and you’ll realize it also aptly fits the man she really wanted for the role: the cigar-chomping Groucho Marx.

Groucho?! What on earth was she thinking?

The irony, of course, is that the first introduction that most people under age 60 ever had to Gone with the Wind was through the film, not the book. Those who then went back to read the novel itself had the 1939 casting list indelibly etched in their brains. Even those who had the tenacity to slog their way through Alexandra Ripley’s 1992 sequel, Scarlett, still had Gable and Leigh playing the combustible leads. Adding insult to injury with a subsequent mini-series starring Timothy Dalton and Joanne Whalley assured a product that virtually no one could compare favorably with the original.

How many times have you read a novel and eagerly anticipated the movie release, only to be disappointed that those scenes which didn’t end up on the cutting room floor were tweaked and rewritten beyond all possible recognition? Even a script that is well written and well cast will still fall short if it fails to measure up to the version that has already played to critical acclaim inside a reader’s head, likewise if the gist of its message strays too far afield from the charm that made the source material endearing.

Therein, of course, is the most compelling reason to finally make 2005 the year you write that book you’ve been putting off. A book, at its very core, represents the most undiluted and most easily disseminated expression of You, the author. Unlike a play or film which requires the participation, interpretation, cooperation and financing of scores of others to give it a platform, a book only requires one writer who believes in it enough to bring it to life. Even an editor, brought along for the ride to give it a proper polish, isn’t going to eradicate the heart of the story nor edit the voice to the cadence and vocabulary of a total stranger. The words—and the intent behind them—will faithfully remain yours.

Whereas a play producer or filmmaker will raise a brow at the expense of launching a story that spans multiple centuries and landscapes (not to mention the costumes, makeup and salaries of all the players), a book hero’s journey on paper will cost exactly the same amount whether he travels to the far reaches of Jupiter or never leaves his cluttered apartment in the Bronx. Further, a book allows anyone who picks it up to draw upon his or her own frame of reference in coloring in the details as opposed to limiting one’s perspective to what a camera — and the person behind it — believes that we should be seeing. A novel’s protagonist can indeed be Clark or Groucho or even the reader himself, for there is no “right” answer in fictional casting.

Today’s technology has even lessened the reliance on agents and publishers to put new works in the hands of an eager readership. Whether you have the entrepreneurial gusto to market a self-published creation or go the route of a single keystroke to send your serialized chapters electronically around the globe, your book can—and will—find an audience that still embraces the power and the magic of the written word.

Happy New Year! Now go get flying!

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Former actress and director Christina Hamlett is an award winning author and script coverage consultant whose credits include 21 books, 115 plays and musicals, 4 optioned films, and columns that appear throughout the US, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Her latest book, COULD IT BE A MOVIE, is available on Amazon and through her publisher at www.mwp.com.

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Related articles:

The Death of Reading: Will a Nation that Stops Reading Eventually Stop Thinking?
By Mitchell Stephens, Los Angeles Times, 1991

NEA’s “Reading at Risk” report
Literary Reading in Dramatic Decline, According to National Endowment for the Arts Survey (with a downloadable pdf version of the report).

Literature at Risk: The state of our reading habits.
An excellent commentary on the Reading at Risk study in the National Review by Peter Wood