Crossword TV

Over the past year or so, I have come to believe there are two categories of TV: crossword shows and non-crossword shows. Crossword shows are shows that only require 50% of my focus, either because I’ve seen them a hundred times (How I Met Your Mother) or because they are designed to allow the viewer to swan in and out (Great British Bake Off). I call them crossword shows because I can watch them while keeping current on my pernicious addiction to the New York Times daily crossword puzzle.

Non-crossword shows are shows that require and reward focus (Succession, The Bear). It would feel rude not to watch for every minuscule shift in Sarah Snook’s facial expressions; also, the show just wouldn’t make that much sense because those minuscule shifts are important. This strikes me as the cost/benefit trade-off of recent prestige drama—if you’re willing to give it all of your attention, it will try to reward you in every frame.

Last month, I read this New Yorker interview with Lucy Prebble, one of the Succession writers (and kudos to the New Yorker for their relentless quest to feature everyone who has ever breathed in the Succession ecosystem). The whole profile is excellent, but I was most interested in what she had to say about TV that feels like “having a bath”:

I have a theory that we’re entering an era of increasingly binarized entertainment. I don’t think we’re about to lose the crossword shows—the things you put on in the background for the vibes. I also don’t think sophisticated, subtle storytelling is going to go away. But I do think the middle ground (sitcoms and the like) will continue to empty.

In book publishing, we talk about a “literary vs. commercial” divide. This is one of those things that gets talked about with lots of handwaving because people don’t want to sound pretentious or dismissive, but basically: literary books aim to win awards, commercial books aim to sell. Obviously, any author would be happy with both, but that’s the gist.

The Hunger Games and The Soulmate Equation are commercial. Trust and The Idiot are literary. You’ll hear the books in the middle of this divide described as “upmarket”—think Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Sorrow and Bliss. Maybe it goes without saying, but one isn’t “better” than the others; they just fulfill different emotional needs at different moments. I love (love!) all six of these books and wouldn’t want any of them to be different than they are.

I’ve been wondering lately if in books, as in TV, we will see an increasingly stark divide between the literary and the commercial. I want to say no because I love upmarket fiction, but I think the answer, unfortunately, is yes.

My reasoning is that I think literary books are going to get weirder. As LLMs get more sophisticated, they’ll get better at churning out familiar plots and sentences. “Familiar” isn’t a bad thing—it’s comforting to read a love story we know will have a happy ending, and it’s satisfying to read clean, clear sentences whose meanings don’t shift beneath you. And I’m not prepared to say that an LLM could go write a good commercial novel—I don’t think it could. But I do think that writers who want their books to be perceived as literary will feel increasingly afraid of sounding predictable—of sounding familiar. So I think we’re going to see more books like Trust, whose structure is, frankly, unhinged (she said with deep and abiding admiration). I also think, on the other end of the spectrum, we’re going to get a lot more books that are primarily meant to be consumed via audiobook while the listener does other things—books that offer frictionless atmosphere.

As with TV writers, the main challenge authors are facing is attention. How much attention can you reasonably expect from your reader, and how can you reward them for it? I find this daunting, but I also think it’s kind of nice. There’s something lovely about the contract between writer and reader, entered miles and years apart. You have to believe some reader, at some point, will expend their attention on your writing. And the reader has to believe you made it worth their while.

Currently reading: I reread Hamlet for the first time since high school, and I’ve gotta say, I think this Shakespeare kid might be onto something. I feel conflicted about the fact that I hated all assigned classics in high school but enjoy them now. Send me your musings on whether we should make kids read things they enjoy or things that will help them understand cultural references!

Non-urgent thought of the week: I’ve spent years thinking Australians call me “doll” (because I have the wholesome face of a Victorian child), but I just discovered they’re often saying “darl,” as in “darling.” I don’t like this more or less than doll, but I do find the adjustment confronting.

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