The Brookeshelf

What We Really Need Is a Big Billboard That Says, "No Fat Lit"

There's been a bit of a pattern I've been noticing in the children's literature blogworld lately: everyone's complaining, or commending, or commenting in some way about the recent glut of mediocre fantasy novels that have been hitting us over our collective heads in 865-page servings lately.

• Roger Sutton made a comment or two on his blog, which garnered many, many repsonses.
• Fuse #8 rejoiced over the novel The Road to Paris because it was a nice middle-grade novel instead of a chubby fantasy.
• And on Oz and Ends, there's a big ol' full-blown essay about the whole thingamajing.
  

Three references is enough to qualify this as "the buzz," eh? My Take On It: yeah, fat fantasy trilogies are annoying -- I've always been a fantasy fan, and to tell the truth, I feel like one of those travel guide writers who are always complaining about how the beautiful little town, villa, or restaurant that used to be such a good secret is now flooded with tourists and their tacky souvenir stands. Traveling to Middle Earth, or Narnia, or Damar used to be something that few people did -- and whenever I met a fellow fantasy-traveler, it would be fun to talk about our favorite places, people, and that ripping little kiosk in Minas Tirith that sells dragon meat on a stick.

Now it seems that everybody's reading fantasy, and while it's kind of gratifying to see this genre recieve the attention that I always thought was its due, it's also frustrating to see so many lousy knockoffs of the Real McCoys. But like those tacky tourist stands, it supports the local economy -- in this case, fantasy authors -- who I hope will in turn separate the wheat from chaff and create better and newer attractions for us tourists in the future.