The Baby with the Bathtub

I have Another Theory. This one is called the Baby with the Bathtub. Have you ever had a favourite author whose writing style suddenly, and frustratingly, changes? My theory is that the author has received so much negative feedback (fools!) that it has eclipsed the positive reviews. The author is shaken; they rethink their entire writing process and, whoops, out goes the baby with the bathtub.

I have evidence to support my claim. Of course. Who do you think you're dealing with here? Do you think I just start writing without any idea of where I am going? (Don't answer that.)

First, there is David Mitchell, who penned number9dream, Ghostwritten and of course Cloud Atlas, one of my favourite novels, and then switched tempo by writing The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. Every time I read a 'Mitchell', I'm consumed by jealousy; he plays with genre and convention, and he does it in a way that doesn't make me roll my eyes because I know what he's doing and he knows I know what he's doing and it's all so meta. (David Eggers, I'm deliberately not looking at you.)

Jacob de Zoet is also, according to the experts, a masterpiece of genre -- but it's just one genre and it's possibly the most boring one: historical fiction. To add insult to injury, the entire story is told in chronological order, with no literary sleight of hand. Like, at all. It may be a 'masterpiece', but it's no CloudAtlas.

Second, there is Jonathan Safran Foer. I could hear the sigh as I typed his name, but give me a chance. Is his writing a bit sanctimonious? Yes. Is it meta and eyeroll-inducing? Yes and yes. But does he also have a way with words that is like real magic? The answer is obviously yes. Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close are both beautifully written masterpieces woven from words and they stick with me still. 

And then he wrote Here I Am. It's longer than his other books -- perhaps three times longer -- and rather than focusing on one character, tells the story of a Jewish family living in contemporary Washington, DC. It's mundane, rather than magic, although there are moments that sparkle; unrelentingly so. Some reviews suggest that the book is semi-autobiographical and perhaps that's why the magic's missing. It's not terrible, but the bathtub's empty.

So I only have two authors in my arsenal of evidence, but I think I've proven my point. While terribly named, my Baby with the Bathtub theory holds water (har har). Case closed.