If you've been following this blog, you know that I harbor a particular brand of irritation for matchy matchy book covers. Particularly matchy book covers that seem designed to identify these books to readers as books that go together, should be purchased together, are related to one another and in general, seem to scream "this is more about marketing than the quality of the writing."
As a marketer myself (yes, I know, painful to admit as a writer, but will come in handy when I must do all my own marketing for as yet unpublished book), I get the concept of applying the "brand" universally. I beg - plead - with clients to just keep the logo the same everywhere. You must keep your brand identity consistent or your customers will get confused! So perhaps more than most readers, I get the concept of one look across many books. I see the marketing wheels at work. I sell these same wheels to my clients every day. So why then, does it piss me off so much when it happens with books?
Now - let me be clear. I understand the need to apply a cohesive "look" to things like the collected works of Marcel Proust, Tolkien, Raymond Chandler and the like. Even re-issues by Penguin, Vintage, etc. make sense to me. Boxed sets, et al. Yet, with new books, a pre-established "look" for existing and as yet to be published books drives me crazy. Most irritating of all, my research suggests that this happens more frequently with "chick lit" books than any other kind. Why is that? Is there an implicit statement being made here about women readers (or women readers of these particular books) needing more hand-holding than other types of readers? That they wouldn't know which book to pick up next without the convenient matchiness of the newest book by the same author? Having attended at least one matchy matchy reading and observing the audience present, perhaps this is an accurate take on the target demographic. Perhaps they want cute books with shoes and outfits and engagement ring illustrations to match when lined-up on their perfect Pottery Barn shelves. But isn't even that a gross generalization? By the marketers? By me?
There is also the firm belief I hold that each book carries it's own separate identity. It's own experience. I believe so strongly in this that I want a new cover to match. Think of your most beloved current-day authors. Do any of their books match? No. No they don't. (Okay, in the spirit of full disclosure, it is duly noted that Murakami's Vintage International paperback series does have the whole eye/sunglasses/circle thing common in each of them. I would like to say that while it is "somewhat" matchy, I accept this level of "design cohesiveness" because the imagery is excellent, the execution flawless and the whole vibe of the covers match the vibe of the writing. And of course, matchy matchy doesn't matter when the writer in question is divine.) And why is that? Are the publishers smarter? The writers actually getting a say in the new covers? Hip art departments simply wanting to "get creative" with each new book from the same author? What forces are at work that allow these writers to have different - unmatched - covers for each book? I wonder.
When a book comes out in hardcover, there is almost always a switch in cover design. Each release of the book in another country seems to warrant another new cover. Whole blogs are dedicated to documenting this endeavor. As a marketer & designer, I dig this a bit. I like to see the reinterpretation of it all across country borders. I'm also fascinated by reading how authors feel about their own book covers and if they feel the cover represents the contents accurately, if it will garner the sales one needs, etc.
Is it, then, purely a classic case of art meeting commerce? For every writer I admire, I want them to sell as many copies of their book(s) as possible. If there is one particular cover design that will help facilitate that over another, I'm all for it. But I wonder about these fluffier books, classified in many circles as "chick lit". Why are they packaged this way? I'm not foolish enough to believe that a matchy matchy cover always means fluffy "you must get married and buy shoes now" writing inside. But. Well. Why is that so often the case?
When I think of reading, the picking up of a novel, the entering into a world that the author has created for you, and the combination of words and characters and story, I'm giddy with what I might discover on a particular journey with a particular writer in a particular book. It is a tactile, mental and visceral thing...this book reading stuff. In light of this, I find the dating, shopping, have baby, get married books to be shallow by comparison. Showing us a world that we all know about, that is not really any different from what we've already seen on Sex & the City (which was far edgier, and had some good dialogue now and again) and that I already get through my long-standing (since I was 14; yes, that's right) Vogue subscription. And I would argue vehemently that several contributing writers of Vogue magazine are much better writers (of their articles, NOT the novels they pen that are in the same vein as matchy matchy - Bergdorf Blondes comes to mind) than a lot of the matchy matchy writers out there. Why?
Is it me? Am I the kind of book snob that I hoped never to become? That I make fun of? I would understand if I was a non-shopping woman. But come on. I have more shoes than I can count and I work from home. No need to get dressed up. Or dressed at all. I love shopping. I've had a Vogue subscription for twenty years. I love design and clothing construction and fabric and the book articles and the contributing fiction writers I admire who somehow manage to make a face cream article vaguely literary with Chekhov & Proustian references. I dig it. So shouldn't I also dig these matchy novels that are written by people who are, in essence, writing about the same things? One would think.
Which brings me to fiction as escape. As a way of imagining oneself in different circumstances. Aspirational reading (in the most loose sense, as aspirational reading for me means...you know...aspiring to be as good a writer as the one I'm currently reading), if you will. Is that what the matchy matchy contingent wants? Is that what the girl in a small town in Montana wants to escape into? Fabulous apartments, Jimmy Choos, hip clubs, expensive jewelry and dashing divorce attorneys? Maybe. But I think we can do better. As writers (and readers), I think we can dig deeper. We have to.
Perhaps it is a very complex issue that I will never unravel. Or it may be quite simple after all: there is a market for every kind of writing and these matchy matchies have found an audience. Who am I to complain about it?
