So, lately I've been thinking about what makes a novel (or other work of fiction) "good." And, by extension, what makes a work fail to be "good."
Thinking about the way works are discussed in various times, places and settings, it seems like maybe there are a variety of criteria one might judge. Summing up my perception of those criteria...
Prose that is one or more of the following:
- Eloquent
- Clever
- Beautiful
- Entertaining
- Readable
- Erudite
- Etc.
- Entertaining
- Likable
- Deep
- Realistic
- Possessed of a notable growth across the course of the work
- Exhibiting a lesson to the reader
- Admirable
- Deplorable
- Etc.
- Instructive
- Educated
- Allegorical
- Filled with symbolism
- Possessing natural foreshadowing
- Neither too simple nor too complex
- Making a statement about humanity, the world, history, society, etc.
- Deemed "of value" (whatever that means)
- Etc.
Obviously, even those lists are filled with vagaries, redundancy, repetition and incompatibility. Which is partially a symptom of the fact that I don't often think about what makes a work approved of as "good" and partially because it's been a very long time since I took a literature course. 😅
Part of the reason I've been thinking about this is because I know that any and all academic criteria would say that Frankenstein is a better book than Dracula (which I read for Halloween) and yet I also know that no matter how many times the choice is put before me to read one of those two books, I would always pick Dracula because it's much more pleasant to read, in addition to being considerably more satisfying as a story.
But by extension of all this, there's the fact that I long ago abandoned any pretense of pursuing the idea of making my own writing "good" by these social standards...and I kind of wonder if that makes me somehow a weakling or quitter or something. Like, I have never written (and undoubtedly never will) anything I would want to share at a family reunion or tell former classmates about. Is that a failing on my part, or just a reflection of my innate sense of inner privacy?
Is anyone else ever plagued by these kinds of questions?
