Jemima Hunt: Who killed Bridget Jones?
Some blame democracy; others too much leisure time. Whatever the reason, everyone's at it: penning novels, shooting films, recording music. Is it surprising, then, that the few not at it haven't a clue what to buy?
Marketing gurus create bestsellers, blockbusters and chart hits, but they certainly don't like the arts
Some blame democracy; others too much leisure time. Whatever the reason, everyone's at it: penning novels, shooting films, recording music. Is it surprising, then, that the public (the few not at it) haven't a clue what to buy?
Cue the marketing men and women. Thanks to the skill of these gurus, a handful of products are turned into bestsellers, top movies and chart hits. This means that the public knows exactly what to spend their money on, and because of the sophistication of the marketing, are made to feel that they have made the choices themselves. Their decisions feel natural, personal even. Welcome to the branding of the arts.
The thing about writing a book or making a film or a record is that the impulse to do so has nothing (in most cases, anyway) to do with market forces. I talk from experience since I write books. What happens is you come up with an idea, you sit in a room for a year, you deliver the manuscript - at which point the marketing department starts talking about your "campaign". Or doesn't. It's only when, post-publication, you go to a bookshop, then another bookshop, and can't find your book that panic sets in: "I'm not being marketed. What's going to happen?" Not a lot is the answer.
When it comes to female fiction, it's hard to remember what existed prior to the publication in 1997 of Bridget Jones's Diary. Did women write books? Were there female readers, besides those who read Iris Murdoch and the loyal devotees of Catherine Cookson? But since The Diary, the glut of novels written for women by women that celebrate female angst and go by the label "chick-lit", has shifted millions of copies.
And now Mills & Boon, purveyors of "women's" fiction for more than 70 years, has decided to get in on the act. Last week it launched a new imprint, Red Dress Ink, aimed to provide "sassy, witty, single-girl-in-the-city" fiction. Yes, it's official. The girl-gets-pissed-with-girlfriends-before-meeting-boy-complete-with-lots-of-hyphenated-sentences formula is no longer simply a recognisable genre, it's a brand. It has been fossilised, and in time will come to appear as dated as 1950s Mills & Boon does to us now. So it's goodbye to chick-lit and hello to what? To another equally dreary sales tag, no doubt.
With books now subjected to the same sort of packaging as Nike trainers, the search for the next lit genre continues apace. In the wake of chick-lit, we've already seen mum-lit and twi-lit (dark stuff) while the post-Nick Hornby reading men are, apparently, reading dad-lit or prick-lit (or was that a joke?). Even male writers are being marketed with cosy, cup-sharing toothbrushes on their covers (toothbrush books, I call them). As any author will tell you, the subject of covers is a sensitive one. Chick-lit books have pink and yellow covers because, like the Mills & Boon logo, they give an indication of what to expect inside: fiction-lite. One of the criticisms levelled at chick-lit is that it is formulaic. Well, of course it is. The boy-meets-girl plot is well established and it's what a lot of women want to read, updated to include all the telltale details of their own flat-sharing, office-inhabiting lives.
What is depressing, however, is that some editors encourage writers to stick to prescribed plots. "I've written what the publisher wanted," a columnist who would rather not be named said recently of her soon-to-be-published relationships-based novel. Next in line to be flogged as an older Bridget Jones, she will also be given a strawberry jacket and a title containing a food metaphor, all of which are fine if she wants them. But what if she doesn't?
The fact is, these days the brand is often more important than the work. What this means is that fewer and fewer artists are given the opportunity to have a go since the priority is making big bucks, and fast. So while a small number of writers/ singers/film-makers are invested in and promoted, the rest are ignored and new talent isn't developed.
The recent implosion of the record label EMI is testimony to this. Having pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into artists such as Janet Jackson and Mariah Carey, the company failed to nurture new acts. By the time EMI's flawed economics had become apparent, it was too late to save the livelihoods of 400 artists whose contracts were terminated.
Modern marketing methods and the chainstores that encourage them are deeply antagonistic to art. Go to any major record shop and you will find exactly the same records on sale; go to any bookshop and the same few titles will appear in the dump bins needed to attract significant custom.
It is well known that publishers pay thousands of pounds to have certain books displayed on the "bestseller" racks. Meanwhile, on any given evening in Borders, it isn't uncommon to spy harried-looking authors shifting piles of their own books from the more tucked-away tables and on to the "top titles" shelves. Self-promotion by stealth.
· Jemima Hunt is the author of The Late Arrival (Flame, £10.99)
Some blame democracy; others too much leisure time. Whatever the reason, everyone's at it: penning novels, shooting films, recording music. Is it surprising, then, that the public (the few not at it) haven't a clue what to buy?
Cue the marketing men and women. Thanks to the skill of these gurus, a handful of products are turned into bestsellers, top movies and chart hits. This means that the public knows exactly what to spend their money on, and because of the sophistication of the marketing, are made to feel that they have made the choices themselves. Their decisions feel natural, personal even. Welcome to the branding of the arts.
The thing about writing a book or making a film or a record is that the impulse to do so has nothing (in most cases, anyway) to do with market forces. I talk from experience since I write books. What happens is you come up with an idea, you sit in a room for a year, you deliver the manuscript - at which point the marketing department starts talking about your "campaign". Or doesn't. It's only when, post-publication, you go to a bookshop, then another bookshop, and can't find your book that panic sets in: "I'm not being marketed. What's going to happen?" Not a lot is the answer.
When it comes to female fiction, it's hard to remember what existed prior to the publication in 1997 of Bridget Jones's Diary. Did women write books? Were there female readers, besides those who read Iris Murdoch and the loyal devotees of Catherine Cookson? But since The Diary, the glut of novels written for women by women that celebrate female angst and go by the label "chick-lit", has shifted millions of copies.
And now Mills & Boon, purveyors of "women's" fiction for more than 70 years, has decided to get in on the act. Last week it launched a new imprint, Red Dress Ink, aimed to provide "sassy, witty, single-girl-in-the-city" fiction. Yes, it's official. The girl-gets-pissed-with-girlfriends-before-meeting-boy-complete-with-lots-of-hyphenated-sentences formula is no longer simply a recognisable genre, it's a brand. It has been fossilised, and in time will come to appear as dated as 1950s Mills & Boon does to us now. So it's goodbye to chick-lit and hello to what? To another equally dreary sales tag, no doubt.
With books now subjected to the same sort of packaging as Nike trainers, the search for the next lit genre continues apace. In the wake of chick-lit, we've already seen mum-lit and twi-lit (dark stuff) while the post-Nick Hornby reading men are, apparently, reading dad-lit or prick-lit (or was that a joke?). Even male writers are being marketed with cosy, cup-sharing toothbrushes on their covers (toothbrush books, I call them). As any author will tell you, the subject of covers is a sensitive one. Chick-lit books have pink and yellow covers because, like the Mills & Boon logo, they give an indication of what to expect inside: fiction-lite. One of the criticisms levelled at chick-lit is that it is formulaic. Well, of course it is. The boy-meets-girl plot is well established and it's what a lot of women want to read, updated to include all the telltale details of their own flat-sharing, office-inhabiting lives.
What is depressing, however, is that some editors encourage writers to stick to prescribed plots. "I've written what the publisher wanted," a columnist who would rather not be named said recently of her soon-to-be-published relationships-based novel. Next in line to be flogged as an older Bridget Jones, she will also be given a strawberry jacket and a title containing a food metaphor, all of which are fine if she wants them. But what if she doesn't?
The fact is, these days the brand is often more important than the work. What this means is that fewer and fewer artists are given the opportunity to have a go since the priority is making big bucks, and fast. So while a small number of writers/ singers/film-makers are invested in and promoted, the rest are ignored and new talent isn't developed.
The recent implosion of the record label EMI is testimony to this. Having pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into artists such as Janet Jackson and Mariah Carey, the company failed to nurture new acts. By the time EMI's flawed economics had become apparent, it was too late to save the livelihoods of 400 artists whose contracts were terminated.
Modern marketing methods and the chainstores that encourage them are deeply antagonistic to art. Go to any major record shop and you will find exactly the same records on sale; go to any bookshop and the same few titles will appear in the dump bins needed to attract significant custom.
It is well known that publishers pay thousands of pounds to have certain books displayed on the "bestseller" racks. Meanwhile, on any given evening in Borders, it isn't uncommon to spy harried-looking authors shifting piles of their own books from the more tucked-away tables and on to the "top titles" shelves. Self-promotion by stealth.
· Jemima Hunt is the author of The Late Arrival (Flame, £10.99)
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