In praise of Snooki

“A cheap literature, hideous and ignoble of aspect, like the tawdry novels which flare in the bookshelves of our railway stations, and which seem designed... for people with a low standard of life.”

-- Matthew Arnold, 1822-1888


Okay, I'll admit it: I've made a couple of wisecracks, too. "I've never been so proud to be part of the Simon & Schuster family," I joshed, injecting my inflection with just the right soupçon of a manly quiver.

Yes, folks, Snooki wrote a book, and an S&S imprint published it, and so from my seat of privilege I pick up on the scuttlebutt and smart remarks just a wee bit more than the average Internet wag.

But let us step back.

The hyperbole surrounding the publication of A Shore Thing is trounced, at least within the confines of the book biz, by one other topic: the imminent demise of the publishing industry. Nobody reads any more, they say. Bookstores are dying. Print is dying. Television is ruining books. The Internet is ruining books. Other books are ruining books.

It goes on. The average novel sells only six and a half copies and that's assuming the author has a large Irish family. One hundred and fourteen percent of all books published never earn out their advances. The average American's book purchases per annum comes out to a figure so infinitesimally wee that it can only be measured by a government-operated subatomic supercomputer based in Quantico.

Do I exaggerate? Not by much. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that most people reading this thing are aspiring authors themselves. I know this because I myself find publishing blogs a useful way to learn about the business and because I spend fourteen hours a day Googling for a straight answer on what percentage of books don't earn out their advances.

If you've read what I've read, then you know it's bleak. Now, my contribution to the literary universe ain't exactly high-class material itself. I am the author of Two Gentlemen of Lebowski, a shining addition to the burgeoning subgenre of 'mash-up', whose rank on the literary prestige ladder is roughly equivalent to that of ventriloquism in the world of theatre. The humor section at the average chain bookstore languishes in some wretched ghetto near the crossword puzzles and libros en español.

So believe when I say I'm no grander than Snooki.

And I know that my publisher took a chance on me because they saw some commercial potential.

But my sales figures were never, if you will, A Shore Thing.

The best-sellers, the big ol' beasts of the commercial marketplace, keep the store open for the rest of us; for the unproven, untested, potentially unprofitable writer like me. If the sordid scribblings of she who self-styles as Snooki can bring some much-welcomed cash into my publisher's coffers, then so be it. The great thing about money, you can spend it on anything you like at a moment's notice. That's why we stopped paying for things with chickens.

That sweet, sweet Snooki money doesn't go in a locked vault marked 'Snooki'. It goes to the business, and the business has its ways to spend it. Let's say it does well. If so, then it lets the publisher go print ten other books that don't make a dime; the sensitive, important works of literary fiction and soul-bearing poetry. The passion projects. The carefully researched histories, the lovingly-documented sociological portraits. Books that beckon, that flicker with insight, that teem with love. The books that make us want to be in this business in the first place.

In short, books that fall on their ass.

That's the idea, anyway.

And I know that the system is fallible. And I know that there's a chance that if we depend on Snooki to support Shakespeare, pretty soon someone'll get greedy and kick Shakespeare to the curb.

I don't have any answers for that.

All I know is that, through no fault of my own, I am drawn to writing the sorts of things that aren't guaranteed best-sellers, and someone has to pay to indulge my foolishness.

And if my guardian angel must sweep in from the Jersey Shore with a pouf encircled in her halo, then so be it.

If I could eliminate the middleman and go on the reality show myself, I would. But I'm only half Italian and my abs aren't up to par, so this is how it is. I'm done with the armchair uproar and idle condescension. You won't hear me complaining about A Shore Thing. And it's not to stand in solidarity with my publisher, and it's not to defend the work itself. It's a matter of mere practicality.

Because there's a much better way to support the kind of writing you care about than to make snarky comments about the kind you don't.

It's pretty simple. You go down to the store and you buy a damn book.

I particularly recommend the section near the crossword puzzles and libros en español.