Yesterday, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (aka Yarn Harlot) posted a small rant about public perception of knitters and knitterly writers. If you’ve not seen it, you should. It’s here: http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/archives/2007/02/16/represent.html.
I remember the universal shock waves that went ’round the ‘net in January when Blue Moon’s old bank decided that the Sock Club must have been a scam and subsequently refunded all payments and froze their account. Blue Moon Fiber Arts is home of the famous Socks That Rock sock yarn, and while the company may be considered relatively small in some ways, we’re talking about an important name in a very large industry. It’s easy to forgive someone who doesn’t knit for not recognizing a major product, but it’s not so easy to forgive a blend of criminal incompetence and sheer stupidity. It goes without saying that had the bank done its homework, it never would have taken that action—and lost what should have been a valued customer. Had that happened here, the bank would have been forced to provide compensation to Blue Moon. I’ve no idea if Blue Moon received anything from the old bank, or even if they received an apology.
And I understand Stephanie’s frustration when it comes to booking venues for her own speaking and book-signing events. The general perception is that knitting is a small, domestic hobby pursued by a small, aging percentage of the general population; it’s cute, old-fashioned, sweet, and totally irrelevant to anything of any importance. I’m not surprised to find that she and her publicist have to argue for larger rooms, chairs, and microphones. Nor am I surprised to hear that people consider her a non-author.
I’ve been thinking about that post since I read it, and watching the numbers of comments rocket. Stephanie has issued a challenge—a shout out to the knitting and fiber arts community—to stand up and be counted and show non-knitters that there are numbers, influence, and economic clout in the percentage of the population she represents. She’s asked for those who are able to show up for her new book launch in New York City on 22 March, and I find myself dwelling on a few specific ideas.
First. This isn’t a new dilemma, and it takes me to something I try and reinforce with my own students. Academia has traditionally been guilty of a kind of literature snobbery: Anything which was not literary writing (i.e., it was genre fiction) was lesser quality. If it wasn’t literary fiction, then it was genre fiction, and genre fiction was the cheap way out of writing literature and required less talent as well as less craft. I remember a creative writing professor who declared that genre writing was generally trash—except for detetctive fiction and while it wasn’t literary fiction, at least it had a few redeeming qualities. For their part, genre writers have typically been put on the defensive and have had to declare that their work required just as much skill and craft as their literary fiction counterparts. Within genre, romance writers are often denigrated; fantasy has been “lifted” a bit by the best-selling Harry Potter series and the film interpretation of the Lord of the Rings series. Writers of humor texts, how-to books, cook books, and coffee-table books have had to face similar attitudes.
More recently, genre writers are recognizing the value of character development and are moving out of stock characters, and literary fiction writers are recognizing the value of plot (something actually has to happen in the story) and are moving away from bathtub stories. Slowly, the two are coming to recognize that they both require skills, performance of craft, and even talent. The performance of those skills may be different, and indeed they may be slightly different in themselves, but they are both valuable. They are both work and both evidence of performance of craft.
Second. I recognize that the individual who told Stephanie that she wasn’t really a best-selling author because her books were about knitting had fallen into the trap of literary snobbery. I understand that part of the motivation here is see-saw egoism; if he denigrates her accomplishment, he casts his own lack of equivalent numbers in a more positive light. I recognize that part of the problem is that she is a female author, and that she still suffers from the stigma of not being a “serious” writer simply because she is a woman. I also understand that another part of the problem is that she’s writing about what is commonly perceived as a domestic pursuit, and that that which is perceived as domestic is usually considered to be trivia and is relegated to the bleachers. (It seems to me that we’re starting to reclaim and redefine “domestic,” but that’s an entirely different discussion.) Finally, I understand that such comments are built on insecurity and narrow-mindedness.
Third. What worries me is that we may be indoctrinating our students into those same ideas.
At least once every semester I have a student who tells me that the mark of good literature is that it “stands the test of time.” Every semester, I challenge that statement. Whose tests and what standards are we considering? It’s not even enough to say that a text must have universal appeal; who makes that determination, and appeal to which universes? If we’re talking about publication numbers, who controls those aspects? It’s an easy cliche that we’ve passed on to our students, and we do them (and ourselves) a disservice. And, it shows up in comments such as the one above: if it is not literary writing, it cannot be “real” writing.
I want literary programs which focus on texts from all genres, and discuss their merits and values across the board. And I want authors who succeed and have even a fraction of Stephanie’s numbers and following to be recognized rather than pat on the head and dismissed while the grown-ups talk about “real” issues.
Fourth. Certainly snobbery isn’t limited to the academic or writing worlds. Even within the knitting community, we have our own snobs. Most often it’s yarn snobbery. We use the term and laugh about it when we do, but some laugh about or talk down to those who use acrylics, while others scoff at the “only natural fiber” camp. They both have value, and somewhere our egoism needs to be set aside to recognize that. If I need to crochet or knit a project that is going to take seriously rough handling, is not liable to ever be handwashed, and needs a certain amount of indestructibility, do you honestly think I’m going to do it with an expensive cashmere or silk blend? For instance, that family who is constantly on the go and wouldn’t remember to handwash a sock—and suddenly has a new baby? Forget it. That baby blanket is going to be made out of Red Heart or Caron or whatever soft, machine-washable, dryer-tolerant, and baby-appropriate yarn I can find. They have enough on their plates without having to worry about handwashing and drying flat something which will cover the only surface which isn’t already covered with baby clothes, laundry, diapers, baby accessories, and the “droppage” of sheer exhaustion when they walk in the door at the end of the day. For them, being able to machine wash and dry something is a gift and an aspect they’d appreciate as much as the object itself. For a friend or family member who wouldn’t mind handwashing something in Woolite and who would value the craft in the gift—that’s a different question, and I’ll cheerfully use my own handspun or a delicate wool or alpaca blend.
It strikes me that, regardless of its forum, snobbery is a weakness in ourselves—a form of egoism which refuses to recognize value in that which is not ours.
Last. Stephanie is going to need a bigger venue and a lot more chairs.
