Literary vs. Commercial Fiction

J.J. Richardson
4 days ago
8 min read

Literature is the closest thing

we have to the physical

manifestation of the human soul.

It seems that everyone and everything nowadays is separated into categories. But categories aren’t helpful when there is a great amount of overlap between them. Most movies classified as comedies, dramas, and science fiction are a blend across many genres. This is tragic because stories are remembered for only one reason instead of many. I’ve written about this extensively in other posts.

This brings us to the divide between commercial and literary fiction. The literary fiction folks try to portray the widest possible gap between the two. I’ve read many explanations attempting to identify the differences between commercial and literary fiction. For example:

Commercial fiction

Prioritizes plot momentum, fast pacing, and mass-market appeal.
Relies on high-stakes external conflicts, clear goals, and satisfying, closed endings.
Entertains. The writing style is clean and pared down.
Main characters aim to be likable to the reader.

Literary fiction

Emphasizes prose style, thematic depth, and deep character psychology.
Focuses on internal growth, the human condition, and artful, stylized writing, often leaving endings open or ambiguous.
Creates art. Writing style takes more risks.
Main characters aim to reveal the human condition.

These explanations aren't sufficient because every serious author, commercial or otherwise, should be committed to creating fiction that,

Utilizes a unique, artful prose style that emphasizes thematic depth,

deep character psychology, and internal growth that highlights

the human condition.

What's really the difference?

I have my own demarcation which separates good literary fiction and good commercial fiction:

Literary fiction has prettier sentences

than commercial fiction.

I can prove my point by providing excerpts from literary fiction. Let's start with the beginning of Jane Eyre, published in 1847 by literary fiction author Charlotte Brontë. Read each sentence slowly and let the words sink in:

We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy.
Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying that she regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavoring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children.”
“What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked.
“Jane, I don’t like cavilers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.”

How about the beginning of The Great Gatsby (publ. 1925), by F. Scott Fitzgerald:

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.

The sentences express a great deal of information. Nick Carraway’s father told him to consider other people’s life experiences and avoid quick judgments. As a result of that advice, people felt safer around Nick and opened up to him endlessly (“veteran bores”). Over time, Nick became a careful observer of human nature. This helped readers to trust Nick as the story’s narrator.

Let's read the beginning of My Cousin Rachel (publ. 1951), by Daphne du Maurier:

They used to hang men at Four Turnings in the old days.
Not anymore, though.
Now, when a murderer pays the penalty for his crime, he does so up at Bodmin, after fair trial at the Assizes.
That is, if the law convicts him before his own conscience kills him.
It is better so.
Like a surgical operation.
And the body has decent burial, though a nameless grave.
When I was a child, it was otherwise.
I can remember as a little lad seeing a fellow hang in chains where the four roads meet.
His face and body were blackened with tar for preservation.
He hung there for five weeks before they cut him down, and it was the fourth week that I saw him.

Thoughtful, internal prose. A dreadful image, but a clear one indeed.

What about today?

I would think every author today would like his or her stories to:

Provide thematic depth using a unique, artful voice and style
Highlight deep character psychology and internal growth
Portray the human condition within a fictional story

Yet, those characteristics are supposedly reserved only for literary fiction. Does this mean modern, commercial fiction is just failed literary fiction?

Read the beginning of William Goldman’s novel, The Princess Bride (publ. 1973), which is not considered literary fiction:

THE YEAR that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette.
Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter.
The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart.
The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.
Chocolate.

This feels literary-esque, does it not?

There’s a larger difference between the above excerpt and the previous literary fiction excerpts. The first three excerpts were written in first person, whereas The Princess Bride was written in third person. This makes for an unfair comparison.

So, to be fair, here is the beginning of Pride and Prejudice (publ. 1813), written in third person:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of someone or other of their daughters.
‘My dear Mr. Bennet,’ said his lady to him one day, ‘have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?’
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
‘But it is,’ returned she; ‘for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.’
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
‘Do you not want to know who has taken it?’ cried his wife impatiently.
‘YOU want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.’
This was invitation enough.

Other than being a bit wordier and containing the words “feelings” and “impatiently,” the prose has a similar level of emotional content as The Princess Bride example. It is even of a similar topic.

How about the following from science-fiction and fantasy author Ray Bradbury’s short story, All Summer in a Day (publ. 1954). Bradbury was not considered a literary writer:

It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands.
A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again.
And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives.
Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn't rain and rain and rain.
They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall.
Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with.
She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands.
But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone.

How is this not literary fiction? Is it because it includes the word “rocket,” and Venus doesn’t really have weather like that?

How can we write like the literary giants?

The question is, how do we succeed in writing more literary-esque in this world of compartmentalization? The best and truest answer, although one I do not wish to hear (I’m already sounding more literary), is we must read more literary fiction.

I’ve been told that the best example of literary fiction ever written is the novel, The Remains of the Day (publ. 1989), by Kazuo Ishiguro. Let’s read together the beginning of the novel:

(After a 13-page prologue. I’m already tired.)

TONIGHT, I find myself here in a great house in the city of Salisbury.
The first day of my trip is now completed, and all in all, I must say I am quite satisfied.
This expedition began this morning almost an hour later than I had planned, despite my having completed my packing and loading the Ford with all necessary items well before eight o’clock.
What with Mr. Clements and the girls also gone for the week, I supposed I was very conscious of the fact that once I departed, Darlington Hall would stand empty for probably the first time this century—perhaps for the first time since the day it was built.
It was an odd feeling and perhaps accounts for why I delayed my departure so long, wandering around the house many times over, checking one last time that all was in order.

Oh, my goodness. I enjoyed the experts from the other literary novels. But this one? The novel is 61,250 words long. I cannot imagine reading another 420 passages like this one.

Yet, The Remains of the Day sold over two million copies. It received the Booker Prize in 1989 and was adapted into an Academy Award-nominated film starring Anthony Hopkins.

Perhaps its story gets better. I’ll have to read it and let you know. This may take me a great while, as I can only drink so much Diet Coke.

I love the following excerpt from The Federalist Papers, which isn't literary fiction. But what gorgeous, flowing sentences! Did everyone write like this back then?

To judge from the history of mankind, we shall be compelled to conclude that the fiery and destructive passions of war reign in the human breast with much more powerful sway than the mild and beneficent sentiments of peace; and that to model our political systems upon speculations of lasting tranquility would be to calculate on the weaker springs of the human character.

— Alexander Hamilton, Federalist No. 34, January 5, 1788

Our higher aspiration

We ought, I think, to care for the beauty of our sentences. Too often we arrange ourselves on shelves as though labels mattered; better, perhaps, to set distinctions aside and immerse ourselves with a quiet faith to writing the finest tales.

Well-born stories provide attention, empathy, patience, the very qualities the world is forever in danger of misplacing. And if our labor results in more souls turning pages instead of surrendering to noisier pursuits, then we may not have transformed the world by literature alone but will certainly not have made it poorer for its absence.

Wow. How’s that for literary writing?