by Rebecca Baumgartner
I never intentionally set out to read what one critic referred to as “landfill nonfiction,” and yet it seems harder than ever to avoid falling into such a book by accident. The term is a bit harsh, but you probably already have some idea of what kind of books I’m talking about.
These are the books with bright covers and upbeat titles that follow roughly this formula: This is Actually Pretty Obvious: A Really Overblown Claim about How We Can Fix Everything and Maybe Even Have More Fun. Many of the books I’m talking about would be shelved in the Self-Help section of your bookstore (remember those?) but the format has now expanded to include popular science, general psychology, sociology, politics, economics, and more.
One of the first things you notice about landfill nonfiction (which I’ll call “pop nonfiction” to be less mean), aside from the formulaic, casual title and the trendy aesthetic of the cover, is the abundance of “malcolms,” folksy anecdotes that an author uses to gently and obliquely introduce a topic to readers imagined to be intellectually shy and prone to bolt at the first sight of a difficult idea.
Often, the malcolm seems to have no relevance to the topic at hand, at least at first. The coy author-as-compère is waiting for the right moment to show you why this story is relevant. The more random the malcolm seems, the more satisfying will be the payoff (or so it is supposed) when the author ties it all back together. A story about a day in a busy hospital that started like any other, or the author’s boat trip with his wife, or a scene from Fiddler on the Roof, eases you into an intellectual project without shocking your system with too much thinking right off the bat. It’s nonfiction writing envisioned as PowerPoint presentation, a corporate icebreaker and team-building exercise before you get down to brass tacks. Read more »