Reading Fiction for Status

Why are we so averse to self-published fiction?

In a comically unforgettable scene from one of my favourite movies, Metropolitan, our two young protagonists—Tom and Audrey—have a spirited discussion about Jane Austen. Audrey is a sheltered romantic who idealizes old-fashioned gentility. Tom is a self-proclaimed utopian socialist who, by virtue of being slightly less wealthy than his prep school peers, acts like he disdains upper-class traditions.

Audrey: I read that Lionel Trilling essay you mentioned. You really like Trilling?

Tom: Yes.

Audrey: I think he’s very strange. He says nobody could like the heroine of Mansfield Park. I like her. Then he goes on and on about how we modern people of today with our modern attitudes bitterly resent Mansfield Park because its heroine is virtuous? What’s wrong with a novel having a virtuous heroine?

Tom: His point is that the novel’s premise, that there’s something immoral in a group of young people putting on a play, is simply absurd.

Audrey: You found Fanny Price unlikable?

Tom: She sounds pretty unbearable. But I haven’t read the book.

Audrey: What?

Tom: You don’t have to have read a book to have an opinion on it. I haven’t read the Bible either.

Audrey: What Jane Austen novels have you read?

Tom: None. I don’t read novels. I prefer good literary criticism. That way, you get both the novelist’s ideas as well as the critic’s thinking. With fiction, I can never forget that none of it ever really happened, that it’s all just made up by the author.

This scene is great in so many ways (Audrey’s expression and shake of head when Tom reveals he’s never read Mansfield Park is perfect), but Tom’s dismissal of fiction is one aspect that’s particularly stuck with me. I’ve heard similar remarks in real life, that there’s no point in reading fiction because it’s all made up. But using that logic, nobody would watch movies either, instead opting to be soberly educated by documentaries. In reality, the top-grossing documentary of 2023, After Death, earned $11.5 million worldwide. Meanwhile, Barbie made $1.5 billion globally as the top box office draw last year.

We clearly don’t loathe make-believe stories. So why are so many people hostile to written fiction? One obvious answer is that reading is time-consuming and solitary. Other art forms like movies can be watched in one sitting and can be part of a fun night out. Video games are more solitary and can go on for hours, but they are engineered to provide constant dopamine hits to keep you playing. Reading may also be negatively associated with schoolwork. Given all this, it’s to be expected that some demand a high payoff for time spent reading. At least non-fiction, especially in genres like self-help, provides something more obviously useful. This explains the rise of YA: if we’re going to do the work, it better be easy and self-affirming.

Our diverging attitudes toward self-published fiction vs. non-fiction are noteworthy. Almost all blogs, newsletters, and even Twitter accounts are essentially self-published non-fiction. Though some authors play characters through these media forms, most try to convey their honest thoughts, feelings, and memories as clearly as possible without plot twists, allegories, unreliable narration, etc. And it’s not as if there’s no market for published non-fiction. There is immense profit and prestige for those who become superstars in published non-fiction. Yet we don’t really look down on people for, say, having a Substack that ruminates on movies or politics or dating. We don’t automatically think they must be cranks with too much time (and too little talent to get published). If we like their work, we instead turn grateful, even admiring, that they would do the world such a favour as to share their beautiful mind for (practically) free.

The same appreciation isn’t shown towards those who self-publish fiction. At best, we feel bad for them for wasting their own time. At worst, we disdain them for cheapening art, for polluting our literary seas with garbage-island fiction. There are several caricatures of writers who self-publish fiction, from reclusive cranks with their 300,000-word unreadable tomes to the IRL losers who write delusional fan fiction where their thinly veiled self-inserts are instantly the most beautiful, talented, and powerful characters of all.

But it’s not as if self-published non-fiction is typically perceived as good either. There are negative stereotypes of blogger types and their work as well (if you call a Substacker a “blogger,” his or her lips might become pursed). Yet the negativity isn’t the same. The proof is in what we choose to read. What are the self-published internet pieces you read most, non-fiction or fiction? When I tell people I have a Substack, I’m certain I’d get more negative reactions if I told them it was full of short stories as opposed to essays.

The reason is in the dirty secret why we often read non-fiction vs. fiction. We read non-fiction to learn something and we can tell quite easily when that something has been taught to us well. Therefore, it matters very little whether the author is some esteemed global figure or an anonymous precocious teenager: we’ve derived a benefit, so thank you, whoever you may be.

In contrast, many of us read fiction for social approval. Or at least some of the time, we do this. This is particularly true for literary fiction. The unsavoury truth is that we often can’t tell if a piece of fiction is good or not. We can tell if it’s comprehensible, grammatically correct, consistent with its own internal logic, etc. But in assessing its artistic merits, we’re lost. I once read about how, as an experiment, a world-famous violinist busked in a subway station. People would’ve paid hundreds of dollars to see him play at Carnegie Hall, and there he was, giving a free concert. And nobody cared.

With the more disrespected genres of fiction, people more openly pursue entertainment, which is why more fan fiction is geared towards these genres. Is this fun to read or not? It’s usually easy to tell. But with some types of fiction, you’re reading to be able to tell others you’ve read a certain book or author. Or maybe it’s just for a private sense of accomplishment (e.g. me reading Anna Karenina, hating most of the process, but loving that I finished it). This type of reading is entirely dependent on prestigious authorities bestowing validation upon works and writers. Self-published fiction has no such validation, so what the hell is the point of reading it?¹

I doubt many people consciously read this way. But there are so many books in the world, so we have to ask why we choose to read some and not others. I keep a running list of all the books I’ve read, and it’s disheartening to look back at it and realize I don’t even remember reading many of them. So why did I in the first place? Because it was a hot title that I felt I needed to have an opinion on. Or someone I respected recommended it to me. I’m guessing this is why I love to hate-read. At least I know I’ll feel something and that what I read will fester in my brain for a long time.

With the best non-fiction pieces I’ve read, if I found them on trod-over sheets of paper on the sidewalk with no names attached to them, I would still be blown away by them. With even the best fiction I’ve read, I’m not that sure.

Another reason is how much we’ve come to revere the artist. With writing, that places fiction over non-fiction. And if art is the exclusive domain of the rare and magnificent, the idea of anybody being able to put forth their work into the world doesn’t conform to that notion.

I recently read a piece by

Benjamin Davis

that explained why writers submit to literary magazines. It’s a good and thoughtful piece, and I left a comment that added another reason: writers may simply need a goal to work towards. Fewer and fewer people may be reading literary magazines, but at least if you get published in one, it’s something you can say you did, because nobody’s going to give you credit for self-publishing a short story. That is, if anybody even reads it.

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who told me that Leaves of Grass had been self-published, and also that Jane Austen self-published some of her novels too. These were illuminating facts that highlighted that our modern college-admissions-like credentialist process is not some natural or default model. Yet at the same time, though I wish I could say that I’m compelled to delve into Substack and other platforms to read more exciting fiction than what is offered in our bookstores, I haven’t been able to work up that energy yet. With as much as I and many others justifiably bemoan the lack of mainstream fiction that we want to read, wouldn’t it be sensible to look more to the literary wilderness? Yet it’s hard enough to find time to read as it is; can’t I just rely on smart and/or cool tastemakers to tell me what to do?

It's not as if made-up stories are unrelatable to their audience. People often cite movies and TV shows as if they were documentaries (to the detrimental of societal sanity). So why can’t fiction, whether published by a major house or on your own, do the same? Writing may be difficult to master, but it’s easy to start. Much more so than other art forms. Writing’s low-barrier-to-entry quality should make it more relatable to people, not less.

Several years ago, I saw something happen that I never thought I would: a New Yorker short story became the most talked-about piece of entertainment in America. Why can’t we have more of where Cat Person came from? I enjoyed the piece, but it wasn’t as if it was some once-in-a-generation work of literary craft. With the amount of pent-up and boiling frustration that people have over contentious issues that are incoherently understood even by those who constantly dwell on them, why shouldn’t fiction writers step in to try articulating what’s going on, if only to give people a reason to talk about what’s on our collective minds?

But for all the onus there is on readers to be more adventurous in seeking out new fiction, writers also have their obligations, to shed respectability artifices in order to be the impetus to stir up discussions, even uncomfortable ones. Or rather, especially uncomfortable ones, which are always the most thrilling.

1. I have actually read some self-published fiction recently, like

ARX-Han

’s novel, Incel. It’s a great read.