In what may or may not be a scathing review in the June 21 Times Book Review of Reif Larsen’s first novel, the Times television critic Ginia Bellafante indicates that she knew that Larsen had an MFA simply by reading his prose.  “It would not be necessary to consult the author bio,” she says.  The novel, The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet, Bellafante says, is “sometimes” beautifully written, but “plagued by that sense of writers workshop insularity: it doesn’t aim to mean much.” 

I should say that I am not in any way a fan of writers’ workshops.  I believe that MFA writing teachers find it easier and less demanding to workshop than having to present useful craft lectures, and that students appreciate and often crave and covet the ego trip that workshops provide.  But workshops, in moderation, are often quite useful, providing a literate reading audience to emerging writers.  Even accomplished writers—very prestigious authors—are part of writing groups with readers that provide feedback, criticism and support.

So I think it is basically unfair and ill-conceived for Bellafante or any writer to arbitrarily write off the contribution of workshops.  And her idea that workshops focus on style (creativity) without substance (meaning) is equally off base.  Effective workshops—and I have been a part of quite a few of them—focus equally on style and substance.  Style first, perhaps, because style (narrative) will often lead to substance and meaning.   I think a problem with workshops is that they are not long enough. and they lead young writers to believe that, because the term is done and grades have been posted, they are finished with their work.  Workshops are beginnings—months and sometimes years of revision and development should follow.

Besides, I think that book reviewers like Bellafante can suffer from the same kind of insularity, writing prose that lacks meaning.  For example, her review begins:  “A relatively short time ago, short time ago [repetition is either mysteriously stylistic or a proofreader’s error], in what was to some that heavenly stretch predating the fall 2008 financial quarter, people spent money on things.”  As examples she names: “executives on gilded office renovations; uptown women on Restylane and luxury retail; and publishers, occasionally, on fiction by the young and unknown.”  Her point, which she eventually gets around to, is that Larsen “with his explorer’s name and brief history promoting a Botswanan marimba band” was paid a million dollar advance for this book. 

So why begin a review with such snide and irrelevant information—speaking of meaning?  She is obviously annoyed, as we all are, by the ineptitude and shallowness of the publishing industry, but it is not Larsen’s fault.  The book should be judged on its merit—not on its advance.  And, speaking of meaning, here’s Bellafante’s first description of the book:  “ . . . each page seems a vitrine constructed to exhibit the author’s discursive, magpie imagination.”

After you figure out what that means, you can Google Restylane.