THERE are many unspoken postulates in literary
criticism, one being that the more one writes, the less remarkable one’s
work is apt to be. Joyce Carol Oates, the author of more than 50 novels
(not counting the 11 written under the pseudonyms Rosamond Smith and
Lauren Kelly), understands perfectly how little use critics have for
prolific writers. In one of her journals she wrote that she seemed to
create “more, certainly, than the literary world allows for a ‘serious’
writer.”
As with most postulates dealing with
subjective perceptions, the idea that prolific writing equals bad
writing must be treated with caution. Mostly, it seems to be true.
Certainly no one is going to induct the mystery novelist John Creasey,
author of 564 novels under 21 different pseudonyms, into the Literary
Hall of Heroes; both he and his creations (the Toff, Inspector Roger
West, Sexton Blake, etc.) have largely been forgotten.
The
same is true of the British novelist Ursula Bloom (over 500 published
works, under many pseudonyms), Barbara Cartland (over 700) and a host of
others. One is reminded of Truman Capote’s famous bon mot about Jack
Kerouac: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”
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