My friend and colleague Carter Jefferson was talking about the different sorts of writing on a discussion list we share, and I found him so insightful (as always, I should add) that I asked his permission to reprint his thoughts here. See if you don’t agree with me:
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What is “fine writing”?
Obviously people will differ, but the term seems to me to be pejorative. Nobody should feel put out if someone is called a fine writer, or some short story is called a fine job, or even if someone says about a piece, “That is fine writing!”
But if someone says, “I only read (or like) fine writing,” that sounds snobbish, for sure.
I certainly don’t think clever to brilliant metaphors or similes are in themselves bad, and I can’t imagine that anyone does. On the other hand, sometimes I read something that screams that the author has sweated for hours: “I just have to put in a great metaphor here!” Similes and metaphors should not shout at the reader, but be smoothly integrated into the piece. That’s not always easy to do.
I remember a paragraph in John Updike’s “Rabbit Run” that simply stood out as an attempt on Updike’s part to do some “fine writing.” That kind of thing certainly puts me off, and I dumped the book.
To me, really fine writing is smooth as silk. Remember the early creative non-fiction, when somebody like Tom Wolfe wrote things like “Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test”? Surely it was unusual, not what readers might expect–but it was very good indeed. When James Joyce wrote “Ulysses,” it was praised or condemned as something very different from the usual novel. Was it “fine writing”? Not necessarily, but it was worth reading, I thought. Then he went on to write “Finnegans Wake,” which almost nobody reads. A page or two was plenty for me. Was that “fine writing”?
Time was nobody even talked about “literary” writing–either a novel was good, or it wasn’t. I have read “literary” novels that were superb–”good reads” if you will. But others have left me cold. Usually that has to do with the content of the book; does it tell a story that interests me, or not?
Offhand I can’t think of a novel that isn’t in the “beginning, middle and end” category. In some cases the story may appear to have no end, but it’s there, sometimes for the reader to supply.
As for the “great” novels of the past, like “Moby-Dick,” obviously some will find them fascinating, others will not. Tastes vary. I’m sure some people would insist they would never read a mystery, a romance, an SF novel. That’s snobbish, all right. Some of the genre novels are far better written than some that are dubbed “literary,” and probably most are not. But it’s always a question of personal taste. I’ve read and enjoyed most of the “classics,” but some, like Henry James, I can do without.
My own taste is catholic. I can’t think of a novel genre I have not read and thoroughly enjoyed, including romance, SF, military fiction, “mainstream” and “literary” fiction. My tastes in non-fiction are much less varied. I like to read history, but it can be so badly written it’s not worth the effort. Some, however, are superb. “I’m in the middle of “Roosevelt and Hopkins” right now, and it’s fascinating. Most memoirs–but not all, for sure–I don’t like, though there’s a list on my website of some I tell my students they’d do well to read. I’m amazed that several really fascinating books on politics and economics are published fairly often, though a lot of them on those subjects are abominable.
Unfortunately for me, a lot of the literary magazines and webzines are full of things somebody thinks is “fine writing.” They try unusual formats as well–Gary likes to give us examples of that sort of thing in the CNF group, and, oddly enough, some people like them, and some don’t. I admit that I’m a bit of a traditionalist: “Just the facts, ma’am.” Or “Tell me a story!” So “fine writing” to me means something I find interesting, informative, or fascinating.
Chacun a son gout!
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Now it’s your turn. What does the term “fine writing” mean to you? Tell me your thoughts, an then you’ll be … beyond the elements of style!
At least, we’re losing it in the places where it should be used. There’s a generous sprinkling of it in other places, of course: it seems that misuse of language outlasts correct usage by a long shot. 
The problem isn’t just that people don’t know when to use whom; it’s that a whole lot of folks don’t care. They appear to think that using whom sounds better, is more erudite or upper-class or clever. News flash: when used incorrectly, it’s not only none of those things, it paints one as quite the opposite.
