Why are publishers often so bad at marketing? Daniel Menaker’s piece "Flap Rules" on BarnesandNobleReview.com points out some of the more grating redundancies slapped on recent fiction: always use "stunning," always use "deeply," find a way to work in "best-selling."

But as aggravating and uninformative as these phrases are, things could be worse.

On the back cover of a Freud paperback I recently purchased, I was astounded to read this (I’ve taken out some specifics so that the poor publishers might remain anonymous):

...widely considered to be one of his greatest works of all time. This great work will surely attract a whole new generation of readers who study Sigmund Freud. For many, [book title] is required reading for various courses and curriculums. And for others who simply enjoy reading on human psychology, this gem by Sigmund Freud is highly recommended...would make an ideal gift and it should be a part of everyone’s personal library.

The copy is almost mesmerizing in its continued propulsion of disappointment. This great work is really great. If you study Freud, reading Freud will be required. A gem, highly recommended, an ideal gift. Stripped of any specificity beyond the mention of "human psychology," this paragraph could have been written about Freud or a Rich Dad, Poor Dad title.

I understand that writing book copy must be a chore—not unlike the experience of writing a cover letter for an obscure job opportunity—but could it also be intentionally designed to greet the reader with a kind of anonymous familiarity? That if we read "stunning" and "deeply" enough we will come to desire those books described as "stunning" and "deep"? If these tricks aren’t effective, surely publishers would stop writing copy in this way. Do readers merely skim flaps and back covers waiting for the right words to affirm their choice?

Perhaps my reference to the heinous Freud copy is, in fact, a Freudian slip: perhaps we hark to book flaps for Father's approval.

Image: blogs.yis.ac.jp

There’s been some talk on the internet about being embarrassed to talk on the internet. Htmlgiant has a post about being embarrassed over sharing one writer’s favorite poems in the context of htmlgiant, which spreads to a post on the writer’s personal resistance to participating in the kind of social/group context that htmlgiant inherently is. But htmlgiant is a particular literary online context, in which expressing one’s personal embarrassment is fairly common: there’s a recent post on the humiliation of being a writer, encouraging further confessions of other people’s thoughts on the humiliation of being a writer.

The general form that many literary posts take is one of confession: addressing first the writer’s justifications or apologies for speaking in the first place before moving on to discuss the issue at hand. To an extent, these confessions create a sense of intimacy between reader and writer, but they also tend to make the piece of writing more about the speaker.

Freud said, “...every individual is virtually an enemy of civilization, though civilization is supposed to be an object of universal human interest.” All groups press for the individual to fall in line. There’s no way around it. But there’s also the possibility of greatness in numbers, which I was surprisingly reminded of last month—an abrupt encounter with the New York City Marathon.

To add my own confessional preamble, I might have been in an emotionally delicate state due to my triumphant hangover. Nonetheless, when I rose up from the subway and heard the mass cheering, when I saw the crowd of strangers applauding and whistling for other strangers, I almost started crying. I do not like crowds, and yet here I was, ready to hug and weep with all of them.

Without doubt, a large, public group of strangers calls for very different codes of behavior than an anonymous gathering online. The street doesn't allow us access to every spectator's feelings about being there (only I get to do that). But maybe we could try emulating a similar kind of enthusiasm that lacks this uncomfortable, stilting sense of self-presentation that seems to be plaguing internet reviewers. Maybe we could pretend that the crowd is gathered for a different purpose than staring down whoever speaks.

Really, how hard would it be to inject pure, unabashed celebration into the internet? To simply cheer and gush over that which excites us? 

Photo: rosemis.com