Tuesday saw the release of Old Poison, the second book in the Dangerous Ground series. It's the one about the two DSS agents, partners and best friends, who suddenly realize there may just be more there to explore. And explore they do. At length and in detail. I jokingly call this my "popcorn" series because it's all action-adventure and sexy fun, but maybe I shouldn't because it gives the impression that these books are...tripe. And I don't think they are. Oh, they're not Dostoevsky -- I'm well aware -- but I'm as careful writing them as anything else. (Which, for the record, is painstakingly careful.) I may not always get it right, but it's not for lack of trying.
The problem, I suspect, is that these books are very easy for me to write -- and I enjoy writing them -- and after all I am The Josh, famed wide and far for Doin' eet Write, yeah? So how does the pure pulp pleasure jibe with my standing as Serious Author? Assuming you can wrap your gray cells around the notion of genre fiction being the stuff of serious writing.
It's a rhetorical question mostly because I love doing what I do or I'd do something else. I've done something else -- and made a heck of a lot more money at it -- so this is definitely about love of the work. The craft. And my craft is -- sometimes at least -- making popcorn balls. The best freaking popcorn balls out there, if I have anything to say about it.
Anyway, I was reading Old Poison's review at Jessewave's. I love Wave's reviews, by the way, because she is unabashed in what she likes and doesn't like. She loves books, she loves reading, and she isn't pretentious about it. She's not unkind, she's frank. Which is great if she enjoys what she read, and less delightful if she doesn't. But you're still getting the real Wave. Anyway, in the comment section Wave mentioned something to the effect that she loves my work but sometimes feels guilty (I'm paraphrasing like mad here) because she has yet to give me a bad review. Basically she feels guilty for enjoying herself too much.
Just as I feel guilty for enjoying myself when I write these books.
What is it about us humans that makes us prone to guilt for enjoying the things we love? We refer to so many things -- chocolate, television, genre fiction, bubble baths and taking time for ourselves -- as guilty pleasures. Why are we guilty about our pleasure?
I'm asking, I don't have an answer -- I just think it's an odd thing about our species. We have trouble being happy. Have you noticed that?
It's not like there is so much pleasure in all our lives that we can't stand one minute more -- or that there's so much laughter and love in the world that these things are trite and meaningless. If anything, given the state of the world, I think escapism is more important to people than ever before (barring a couple of World Wars).
Like I said, I don't have the answer. I'm curious as to what you think.
