Since I’m not reading at the moment, I figured now was a good time to think about why I don’t like metafiction.
I’ve been in honors English classes since, well, forever. (Don’t make me qualify the elementary school part, please. That’s silly.) I’m bringing this up because, as a result, I’ve done a lot of literary analysis. From what I hear of regular classes, there’s grammar lessons and stuff; we did vocabulary and then essays. Lots and lots of essays.
Lots and lots of analysis.
So it’s not like deconstructing literature is a new bucket of fish, or even that I got burned out on it. Au contraire, one of my best college memories is spending an hour taking apart a single verse in Genesis 1.
I think the reason I don’t like metafiction is because I don’t like being told what to think about my literature. (Antiauthoritarian much? I know, I know.) Also, I compartmentalize well—I can even read The Great Gatsby, and we spent a month writing that essay junior year.
But, really, for me the fun of literature is in drawing what conclusions I will, ideally with a room of other interested people, even though I had to settle for about three in high school. I don’t want the analysis to be there in the text, I want it to be an option beyond the written words.
I like my cigars to be cigars outside of the classroom.