Bloat Is the Point

For no reason, I’ve been reading short books that pack a punch. With so much emphasis on book fatness (hullo, fantasy), it can be a shock to the system to read stories under 200 pages. The short form may be all one needs to receive a message, and I often dismissed it.* How can one dismiss Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny, Samantha Harvey’s Orbital, and Natalie Goldberg’s Writing on Empty. Turns out, I love succinct.

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

But now Senator Cory Booker has ruined everything and I’m back to Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song (1,000 pages), which I read about 20 years ago. Cory, you’ve ruined my short-book honeymoon with your majestic tome, and it’s not just because I feel I know you personally because we went to the same deli and I witnessed your purchase of Utz potato chips, which solidified us as potential best friends. It’s possible I even chatted with the deli owner about how great you are, when and how often you patronize the place. He didn’t give me this information, but he did say that Paul Simon also came in and liked the chicken soup.

See? I’m already going off on an unneccesary tangent, but it’s not for naught! Sometimes being long-winded and slightly bloated (Cory is not bloated) is what your viewer or reader needs. I didn’t pay attention to the senator’s epic tome for the first few hours or even fifteen. But as April 1st moseyed along, I realized that a whole lot of words were flowing from one person over the course of a day. These words were heartfelt, had meaning and purpose. You could have jumped in during the first hour, the 10th or the 20th and felt the energy of history in the making. By hour 21, I had plugged in fully to witness a record about to be broken. Not only did his speech cover a range of topics, but it was a marathon protest few would even think to try. How often does one see an above and beyond presentation full of outrage, entreaty, information, earnest preaching, and the kind of bloat (weight) that is grounded in a serious message? For those who witnessed the entire speech, it’s not one particular hour but all of it that made it a classic.

This can be very true with a book, though some fail miserably. Writers can be long-winded and forego ruthless editing. Or they are used to not being edited. Or they can fall into another category, which is often known for grappling with an epic or a classic. I am just in awe of those who write well, no matter the word length, but it’s taken me a long time to trust my own judgment when it comes to books that are ridiculous and way too long.

Here are some ways to know you are reading—even writing—a bloated book (and not bloated in a good way).

1. Picture it: You are reading the latest book by an author famous for their severe bloatage. It hits you that an editor was not allowed to touch the book, and the publisher was okay with this because millions were at stake. I’m here to tell you that your instincts are accurate! It’s a terrible situation, btw, where everyone but the editor is at fault. This happens A LOT. Do you expect the underpaid editor to quit? Because of lots of green stuff, the bloat goes on.

2. In the book, the writer uses endless lists to create a vibe. Such easy bloat can get annoying if overused. One of my former-favorite literary rockers praised this one cement block, so I picked it up and started reading. I got about 200 pages in and thought, Really? Does listing things conjure Beat poetry, breezy stream of consciousness, Jungian analysis, or posh, hierophant Bridget Jones? I only know that when writers use this often, the pages get heavier. Because the literati fell over themselves to praise this book, I hunkered down and got through the whole thing. I made it through the rain and found myself dejected.**

3. You’re reading and thinking, This writer totally used their Artist’s Way morning pages to fill up a book. And you’re probably right! During COVID, I read a three-story-townhouse of a book, one I’d wanted to read for ages about one of my favorite topics. How could 800 pages about gloriousness be bad? I weeded through very short chapters, then very long chapters, and long screeds of nothingness, followed by a miscarriage, and three generations later, I sent it to die in my mailroom. The movie also went unwatched by me.

4. Too much or too little white space. At a store, I usually flip through a book before I buy it. Too much dialogue can cause a DNF*** because lengthy conversations—even in real life—can feel tedious. Also, not a fan of no dialogue unless the writing is brilliant. My test is while reading, if it feels like an assault, it is! Usually, I keep reading because I can be wrong. A hundred pages later, if I still feel like the book is assaulting me, I put it down without hesitation.

5. This aligns a bit with 1. and might strike at the heart of panster**** writers. Fear not, I am a panster (who desperately wants to be a plotter) and understand that each scene you impulsively write deserves a trophy. Even if that scene goes nowhere and you forge ahead, writing the sh*t out of the heroine eating an éclair while standing on a ledge and whining about her cheating boyfriend. Happens every day and it’s so interesting. Who knows, maybe an extra seven chapters on the ledge will be what helps you reach the middle of your book. Editor note: Ask yourself if your reader will care about this person eating the éclair. Writer says, But hey, I’m a writer and I’m writing for myself. Editor note: Sure. And that’s obvious so go enjoy your writing because no one else will. By the way, my short time in food service involved testing the éclairs by poking my finger in the end and tasting the cream. If it seemed okay, I put it back in the case. Doesn’t this make you want to go to a bakery?

Photo by Marie Wickert on Unsplash

In terms of bloated literature, I know many of you are thinking of Moby Dick. Why did you have to read that? It’s so long, maybe boring, maybe genius, but the anti-thesis of The Great Gatsby, a short knife fight compared to Melville’s 100-year war. Incidentally, it took me 10 years to read Moby Dick and when I finished, I was happy…that is was over, but also that I had read it. There are writers whose works are studied centuries later. To me, that smells like a classic.

Here are some favorite long-winded books where bloat is kind of the point. If you haven’t noticed, this is purely subjective, so if you disagree, you are right.

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (worth the read to get to the Levin part)

Taylor Swift’s The Tortured Poets Department

Everything by Emile Zola but if you buy the Rougon-Macquard set, be prepared to carry an air conditioner.

Select books in the fantasy genre, many of which are fantastic. :)

Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust, and he sure writes a lot of things. I only got to p. 55 of Swann’s Way and have no idea about the rest, but if there’s any writer who lives in bloat, it’s dear Marcel. My husband is a Proust scholar, and so I trust that Proust is the best thing since sliced madeleines.

The Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer. If you reread a book twenty years later, sometimes it’s like reading it for the first time. [Insert I-hope-this-doesn’t-mean-early-dementia face]

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, and the genius of this book is that every word struck me as absolutely necessary.

Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz, especially p. 49.

Oh hell, throw in Jackie Collins because she’s tons of fun and those Lucky books are deliciously endless.

The Beatles’s White Album

I won’t list the worst bloated books because it’s subjective, there’s enough negative energy, and writing a book is hard. The important point is taking your reader on a ride, no matter how many words you use.

*Unintentional fat-shaming and sizeist innuendo here but leaving it along with a disclaimer that I love everyone except for you-know-who and you-know-who.

**Elizabeth Gilbert says you can send books to the graveyard guilt-free. French smartypants Bernard-Henri Lévy raked a hand through his curly locks and brazenly said you don’t really have to read books. But maybe you can say you read them? I don’t know. I didn’t read his book. Non, mais oui, I read it. This is a meaningless, verging on upsetting, tangent since it sent me down a BHL rabbithole.

***Mom, that means Did Not Finish.

****Mom, these are writers who write by the seat of their pants, sort of how I buy clothes and makeup (no plan).