Fifty shades of no one cares

OK, so I’ll admit it. I read “50 Shades of Grey” last summer while I traveled to Disney World for a friend’s 21st birthday.

While I certainly enjoyed turning my brain off for a couple days and discreetly devouring the “mommy porn” behind the safety of the Kindle app on my laptop, nobody should fool themselves into believing that E.L. James is producing literature.

James is obviously on to something here, and her massive success must be respected. But I can’t help but wonder, does anyone really care? And why would they?

Charlie Hunnam and Dakota Johnson were announced as the leads starring in the “50 Shades of Grey” film adaption that will be directed by Sam Taylor-Wood and released in August 2014. According to Forbes, E.L. James is now the top-earning author in the world with reported revenue of $95 million in 2013.

So yeah, maybe some people do care.

But the zeitgeist that was the “50 Shades of Grey” movement flamed out pretty quickly because once the shock value wore off, there was nothing of substance to fuel the book’s continued relevance. This is exactly how the trajectory of sex stories tend to go.

It’s hard to imagine, but in two months we won’t be talking about Miley Cyrus’ performance at the VMAs. She twerked on Robin Thicke and played with a foam finger, but that excitement only lasts so long.

The same goes for “50 Shades of Grey.” We were shocked a young, female protagonist could partake in experimental sex acts and that someone would put it in such vivid words. But once we got over that, was there strong storytelling to fall back on? No.

Was there a cultural significance that pointed to cultural convergence of ideas? No.

There was some high school-level writing and a girl getting consensually tied up for sex.

“50 Shades of Grey” belongs on book shelves because freedom of speech is important, and the fact that a female writer has found such success is a cause to celebrate. But let’s not pretend it’s the next great American novel.

It’s a temporary cash cow that will be milked dry until the next big, great sex story breaks and leaves James’ books in fifty shades of dust.