March, 2013
Thanks to VG LittleBear for the accidental plot bunny!
That's Not Writing, That's Typing
(Truman Capote, reviewing Jack Kerouac)*
Unlike some florists and bakers, we don't exclude whole chunks of customers based on a whim. Our We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone sign is the polite version of "if you act like a jerk, we're going to punt you to the sidewalk." Jerks come in all stripes.
Same with writers. Books are a matter of taste, and I don't monitor or censor what people read. I may roll my eyes after they walk out the door, but as a librarian I know said regarding the Scare Yourself Silly series, "Reading habit first. Taste comes second."
All well and good. But as Tevye put it, "Some things I will not, I cannot allow." And every once in a blue moon I exercise my right to not sell something I find offensive. (I've thrown out a lot of gift catalogs with items even drunken frat boys would have called bad taste.)
"It's sold, like, eight zillion copies." Valerie was playing devil's (and how!) advocate.
"So did the Pet Rock. And Chia Pet is still in business. No accounting for taste—or lack thereof. No."
"First Amendment!"
"Applies primarily to the ability to speak out against the government without fear of being put in the dungeon—and even that has some limits. I'm not objecting to it being written—" I rolled my eyes and made air quotes. "Ha-ha 'written'—or published. I simply choose to not sell it."
"You're walking away from revenue!"
"Yeppers. If I sold ten used copies a week that's—what—a hundred twenty a week and you know it won't sell that many every week—I could order another rack from Button B'zarre and top that easily."
"We don't have room for another rack. We do have shelf space."
"You wish."
"It's a book. Censorship is bad." Val pointed to the t-shirt on the rack behind me that bore similar wording.
"Am I picketing? No. Am I calling the Supreme Court? No. Am I burning books? No. I'm just not selling it." When she started to object again, I said firmly, "It's crap."
"We sell a lot of crap!" she protested.
"Have you even read it?"
She started to answer, then shut her mouth and looked abashed. "Ah—no."
"You are on shaky ground, sister. I even watched that stupid cartoon for one episode before I panned it." (How stupid? So stupid I can't even remember the name.)
"You didn't read..." I nodded and she gasped. "You did? You did?!"
"Yes," I said grimly. "By the end of the first chapter, I wanted to throw it through the wall. Two more and I wanted to throw it into orbit. It is dreck. Ignoring the fact that this 'love story' encourages physical and emotional abuse—and that is too much to ignore, thank you—it is so badly written I can't stand it! Characters don't say something; they—" I searched my memory "Oh, god, they 'muse matter-of-factly.'"
Valerie's lips twitched. "Seriously?"
"That's just one I can remember. It stuck with me. There were worse. Remember, this thing was based on a Twilight fanfic. It makes Twilight look like—" I stumbled for a comparison. "Shakespeare." Tried but true. "And you know how much I love Twilight."
"Not."
"Exactly. I wrote some of the worst Star Trek stories back in junior high and high school. Even published a couple. But I have burned fanfic that was better than this."
"Burned?"
"Yep." At her questioning look, I admitted, "Well, I was watching my brother's kids fairly often and I had visions of explaining things I didn't want to talk about."
Valerie's look turned almost gleeful. "Reallllllly?"
"Yeah, yeah, I wrote a couple of dirty stories. Bad dirty stores. Found 'em while I was packing to move. I had a bonfire in the trash can."
"I just can't believe someone published it." Valerie had abandoned her stint as Perry Mason.
"And someone—plenty of someones—paid cold, hard cash for it. I wouldn't mind a percentage of what she made—I know, I know, what's the difference? I'm mercenary. Pennies versus pounds." I leaned back in my chair and reached out to the stack of DO NOT SELL items under the counter. "Hang on... here we go..." I pulled out a copy of The Fanzine Editor's Guide to the Alphabet, a little digest sized booklet that had been in a box of D&D books, zines and other fannish stuff we found at a yard sale. (I had owned a copy ages ago; it disappeared in a move. 5 moves equal a fire, I've been told.)
I looked around to make sure nobody had slipped in without my noticing. "G...H...O...R... okay." I cleared my throat. "S is for Slash," I read in my Story Time voice. "Slash is a non-cannon pairing and was invented by the K/S writers back when we were all little fen. Common pairings are Kirk and Spock, Starsky and Hutch, Starsky, Hutch and Huggy Bear, Starbuck and Apollo, Beretta and Fred (Wait—Beretta and Fred? Euuu.). There is no pairing or group so weird, so twisted, so totally out there that one person won't write it, another won't publish it and a third won't read it." I held up the booklet. "And that was in 1979."
"Precognition?" Valerie had just been arguing for fun; I'd heard her describe the book as a waste of trees.
"Perhaps. But my line in the sand can be called Fifty Shades of Oh, Hell, No."
*Also Robin Williams as a kindergarten Truman Capote reviewing Dick and Jane