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Tin House & Genre Fiction
This morning, I came across Matthew Cheney’s blog The Mumpsimus, wherein I got absorbed by this post, in which he addresses a recent statement by Tin House re: their position on “genre fiction.”
A reader wrote Tin House with this question:
I have read several issues of Tin House, including the most recent. Two vegetarians go on a hunting trip . . . enough said. I feel that I have several pieces that would fit the magazine, however, I am struggling with just one thing. This question is geared not only toward the magazine but the writing workshop as well. Do you accept genre fiction? I was also wondering how I might go about determining whether or not my piece fits into a specific genre and what general fiction is. Thank you in advance.
—Confused in LA
A writer for Tin House responded thusly.
I think Cheney’s criticism of the response raises many interesting questions. Why, for instance, in this day & age, are so many literary-types still so anti-genre, so myopic, so essentialist?
Here’s one example: Tin House on “what is genre fiction”:
My personal definition goes something like this: fiction that almost purposefully avoids the literary, in hopes of keeping the reader (or the writer, for that matter) from having to “work” too hard.
Seriously?
No, really.
Seriously?
seriously.
seriously.
Genre fiction is something you can read one week and forget the next. The whole idea of genre was made up to increase sales of like-minded authors; entire publishing arms were founded on it–if you like this, check this out. Which isn’t a wrong or bad thing, but it does speak to a different motivation than most of the writers I want to read or publish. Now, this notwithstanding, there are some great examples of literature written by people who fell into a genre category voluntarily–The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin and of course Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, plus weren’t A Clockwork Orange, 1984, and Brave New World all categorized thusly? They were categorized to sell. I happen to doubt they were written with “genre” in mind. I reject genre as a valid point of legitimacy and that’s what makes me different from the guy who “wants to submit genre fiction.” If he feels his stories are suited then he should just submit them and not shoot himself in the foot by calling them genre fiction. Juked has routinely published stories with elements more commonly found in genre fiction but which did so in more literary and memorable ways; that one story about the time traveler they published a few years back was one of the most memorable that I read in the archives. I guess that’s all I’ve got to say: if you classify your own work and don’t leave that up to the salesmen then your work should and will suffer for it, either now or as part of your legacy. I’d be willing to let a major publisher call something of mine science fiction or whatever. The trade-off is enormous: national distro and big paycheck in exchange for taking some flack from your base.
Genre fiction is something you can read one week and forget the next. The whole idea of genre was made up to increase sales of like-minded authors; entire publishing arms were founded on it–if you like this, check this out. Which isn’t a wrong or bad thing, but it does speak to a different motivation than most of the writers I want to read or publish. Now, this notwithstanding, there are some great examples of literature written by people who fell into a genre category voluntarily–The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin and of course Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, plus weren’t A Clockwork Orange, 1984, and Brave New World all categorized thusly? They were categorized to sell. I happen to doubt they were written with “genre” in mind. I reject genre as a valid point of legitimacy and that’s what makes me different from the guy who “wants to submit genre fiction.” If he feels his stories are suited then he should just submit them and not shoot himself in the foot by calling them genre fiction. Juked has routinely published stories with elements more commonly found in genre fiction but which did so in more literary and memorable ways; that one story about the time traveler they published a few years back was one of the most memorable that I read in the archives. I guess that’s all I’ve got to say: if you classify your own work and don’t leave that up to the salesmen then your work should and will suffer for it, either now or as part of your legacy. I’d be willing to let a major publisher call something of mine science fiction or whatever. The trade-off is enormous: national distro and big paycheck in exchange for taking some flack from your base.
Oh god.
I hate this kind of stuff. It’s always so obvious that the people involved with crafting these genre distinctions have never/rarely picked up a genre novel. “Characters tend to be one-dimensional, with the kind of awkward and false-sounding dialog you’d expect.” Really? Some of the most well-crafted books I’ve read have been by genre authors–Octavia Butler or Sherri S. Tepper or Margaret Atwood (even if Atwood keeps protesting that she doesn’t write sci-fi) or Russell Hoban. Of course, when literary readers find a genre novel they like, they’re always quick to say that it’s not really a genre book. “The Road can’t be science fiction. It’s so good.”
Bullshit, I say.
Oh god.
I hate this kind of stuff. It’s always so obvious that the people involved with crafting these genre distinctions have never/rarely picked up a genre novel. “Characters tend to be one-dimensional, with the kind of awkward and false-sounding dialog you’d expect.” Really? Some of the most well-crafted books I’ve read have been by genre authors–Octavia Butler or Sherri S. Tepper or Margaret Atwood (even if Atwood keeps protesting that she doesn’t write sci-fi) or Russell Hoban. Of course, when literary readers find a genre novel they like, they’re always quick to say that it’s not really a genre book. “The Road can’t be science fiction. It’s so good.”
Bullshit, I say.
This self-absorbed, defensive bullshit on the part of many literary writers makes me sick, and it makes me laugh. I can never decide how much of it is jealousy that way more genre is still actually read by people outside The Club, and how much of it is just being really fucking stupid.
This self-absorbed, defensive bullshit on the part of many literary writers makes me sick, and it makes me laugh. I can never decide how much of it is jealousy that way more genre is still actually read by people outside The Club, and how much of it is just being really fucking stupid.
You’re so right, Phoebe. All those Louis L’Amour characters were undeniably deep and interesting; the dialogue must have taken him months to craft. On the whole, sci fi/western/fantasy/horror writers obviously pour a lot more of their time and energy into crafting deliciously unforgettable fiction–not chasing the next Vampire series in hopes of striking rich on it, or anything like that.
You’re so right, Phoebe. All those Louis L’Amour characters were undeniably deep and interesting; the dialogue must have taken him months to craft. On the whole, sci fi/western/fantasy/horror writers obviously pour a lot more of their time and energy into crafting deliciously unforgettable fiction–not chasing the next Vampire series in hopes of striking rich on it, or anything like that.
i feel that on a certain level it’s all bullshit. a book is a book and words are words and you either like them or you don’t. there are certain things that have really rigid structural elements, but most of that’s in poetry, i am pretty sure. there are probably lots of others and i just don’t know about them. but when it comes down to it, it’s words you like v words you don’t and anything else is just a need to make something that is more than one thing into only one thing and i’m not saying that’s bullshit i’m just saying that it’s putting a thing in a box so that it can make more sense.
i feel that on a certain level it’s all bullshit. a book is a book and words are words and you either like them or you don’t. there are certain things that have really rigid structural elements, but most of that’s in poetry, i am pretty sure. there are probably lots of others and i just don’t know about them. but when it comes down to it, it’s words you like v words you don’t and anything else is just a need to make something that is more than one thing into only one thing and i’m not saying that’s bullshit i’m just saying that it’s putting a thing in a box so that it can make more sense.
There are as many thoughtful and intelligent genre writers as there are money-grubbing ones. Take a look at a decent “genre” mag like Strange Horizons (full disclosure: I proofread for them. But if nothing else, I can assure you that I’m familiar with what’s published there). The writing in there, or in anthologies like Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror is carefully crafted and developed. As for LeGuin or Bradbury not being genre writers, you might want to run those labels by them. They deliberately and repeatedly wrote genre works and considered/consider themselves to be writers of science fiction. The fact that you think you don’t like sci-fi doesn’t really change the fact that they wrote books about Martians and wizards.
There are as many thoughtful and intelligent genre writers as there are money-grubbing ones. Take a look at a decent “genre” mag like Strange Horizons (full disclosure: I proofread for them. But if nothing else, I can assure you that I’m familiar with what’s published there). The writing in there, or in anthologies like Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror is carefully crafted and developed. As for LeGuin or Bradbury not being genre writers, you might want to run those labels by them. They deliberately and repeatedly wrote genre works and considered/consider themselves to be writers of science fiction. The fact that you think you don’t like sci-fi doesn’t really change the fact that they wrote books about Martians and wizards.
Setting aside the genre judgement itself, the ignorance of the Tin House writer is pretty impressive. Denis Johnson “just” came out with a “detective novel” (referring to Nobody Move)? Yeah, I guess he “just” did, unless you count Resuscitation of Hanged Man, which was published nearly 20 years ago, and in which the main character is actually a detective (no one in Nobody Move is – “crime novel” would be a much better description of that book, though of course someone who reaches for their bedside James Wood whenever they hear the word genre couldn’t be bothered to make such a fine distinction).
Setting aside the genre judgement itself, the ignorance of the Tin House writer is pretty impressive. Denis Johnson “just” came out with a “detective novel” (referring to Nobody Move)? Yeah, I guess he “just” did, unless you count Resuscitation of Hanged Man, which was published nearly 20 years ago, and in which the main character is actually a detective (no one in Nobody Move is – “crime novel” would be a much better description of that book, though of course someone who reaches for their bedside James Wood whenever they hear the word genre couldn’t be bothered to make such a fine distinction).
I think the problem is that there are too many definitions of “genre,” so that the term itself is kinda meaningless.
In terms of submission policies for lit mags, it’s definitely used as a kind of shorthand, and a pejorative one. Not the same way it might be used in other contexts.
We had this debate, sort of, with Barrelhouse, because on the one hand saying “no genre fiction” seemed to be a quick/accepted way of saying “please don’t send us your Buffy fan fiction,” but then on the other hand it felt weird/wrong, for the reasons broached above. Plus, maybe someone would write awesome Buffy fan fiction, and we’d totally publish that. We did publish poems about Ed Asner, after all.
Anyway, the point of all this, I guess, is that I think the term is just an outdated placeholder lit mags use to denote themselves as “lit mags,” and try to steer away work that might be better suited to sci-fi-specific magazines.
The same way journals sometimes say no “inspirational” stories, though that one seems to be dying out. It doesn’t mean stories shouldn’t inspire; it just means “don’t send us your Chicken Soup for the Administrative Professional Soul story.”
I think the problem is that there are too many definitions of “genre,” so that the term itself is kinda meaningless.
In terms of submission policies for lit mags, it’s definitely used as a kind of shorthand, and a pejorative one. Not the same way it might be used in other contexts.
We had this debate, sort of, with Barrelhouse, because on the one hand saying “no genre fiction” seemed to be a quick/accepted way of saying “please don’t send us your Buffy fan fiction,” but then on the other hand it felt weird/wrong, for the reasons broached above. Plus, maybe someone would write awesome Buffy fan fiction, and we’d totally publish that. We did publish poems about Ed Asner, after all.
Anyway, the point of all this, I guess, is that I think the term is just an outdated placeholder lit mags use to denote themselves as “lit mags,” and try to steer away work that might be better suited to sci-fi-specific magazines.
The same way journals sometimes say no “inspirational” stories, though that one seems to be dying out. It doesn’t mean stories shouldn’t inspire; it just means “don’t send us your Chicken Soup for the Administrative Professional Soul story.”
I think one of the reasons these knee-jerk responses are problematic is that it shows an ignorance of the really high-quality writing that genre mags, or mags open to genre, include. Most of these magazines wouldn’t take Buffy fanfiction not in the least because of copyright issues, but also because they’re looking for high quality writing, too. A quick look at their submission guidelines confirms that, and also manages to communicate that without stepping on any toes. Here’s Strange Horizons’: “We want good speculative fiction. If your story doesn’t have a clear fantasy or science fiction element, or at least strong speculative-fiction sensibilities, it’s probably not for us.
We’d like to help make the field of speculative fiction more inclusive, more welcoming to both authors and readers from traditionally underrepresented groups, so we’re interested in seeing stories from diverse perspectives and backgrounds.
We want stories that have some literary depth but aren’t boring; styles that are unusual yet readable; structures that balance inventiveness with traditional narrative. We like characters we can care about. We like settings and cultures that we don’t see all the time in speculative fiction.
We like stories that address political issues in complex and sensitive ways. However, we don’t like heavy-handed or preachy or simplistic approaches.”
And GUD’s, which is a market open to genre work, though not specifically for genre work: “Our dictionary defines literature thus: written works, esp. those valued for form and style. And that is what we are looking for—form and style, though be sure there’s substance as well. Any genre, including literary or mainstream, is acceptable. We don’t back away from a fight—if your work screws with convention, breaks rules, makes demands of the reader, then we’re equal to the challenge. Just please, by whatever you hold dear, give us some prize at the end of the fight.”
It’s not hard to say “give us quality writing, and here are some traits that we find indicative of quality writing” without implying that many hardworking writers of genres you may not be familiar without are producing nothing but crap.
In fact, it strikes me as lazy, and also a good way to scare good writers working in genre away from submitting, to just make blanket statements that imply judgments of quality, especially when those judgments of quality arise out of stereotypes of writers or readers. Which is, I think, the only real difference between the way those within genre writing define “genre” and those within literary writing define it. The stereotype of a genre reader is that of a mouth breather, a nerd, a fanboy or girl, a housewife, someone generally uneducated. Literary peeps seem to be quick to try to divorce themselves from that, even if it’s not an accurate picture at all.
I think one of the reasons these knee-jerk responses are problematic is that it shows an ignorance of the really high-quality writing that genre mags, or mags open to genre, include. Most of these magazines wouldn’t take Buffy fanfiction not in the least because of copyright issues, but also because they’re looking for high quality writing, too. A quick look at their submission guidelines confirms that, and also manages to communicate that without stepping on any toes. Here’s Strange Horizons’: “We want good speculative fiction. If your story doesn’t have a clear fantasy or science fiction element, or at least strong speculative-fiction sensibilities, it’s probably not for us.
We’d like to help make the field of speculative fiction more inclusive, more welcoming to both authors and readers from traditionally underrepresented groups, so we’re interested in seeing stories from diverse perspectives and backgrounds.
We want stories that have some literary depth but aren’t boring; styles that are unusual yet readable; structures that balance inventiveness with traditional narrative. We like characters we can care about. We like settings and cultures that we don’t see all the time in speculative fiction.
We like stories that address political issues in complex and sensitive ways. However, we don’t like heavy-handed or preachy or simplistic approaches.”
And GUD’s, which is a market open to genre work, though not specifically for genre work: “Our dictionary defines literature thus: written works, esp. those valued for form and style. And that is what we are looking for—form and style, though be sure there’s substance as well. Any genre, including literary or mainstream, is acceptable. We don’t back away from a fight—if your work screws with convention, breaks rules, makes demands of the reader, then we’re equal to the challenge. Just please, by whatever you hold dear, give us some prize at the end of the fight.”
It’s not hard to say “give us quality writing, and here are some traits that we find indicative of quality writing” without implying that many hardworking writers of genres you may not be familiar without are producing nothing but crap.
In fact, it strikes me as lazy, and also a good way to scare good writers working in genre away from submitting, to just make blanket statements that imply judgments of quality, especially when those judgments of quality arise out of stereotypes of writers or readers. Which is, I think, the only real difference between the way those within genre writing define “genre” and those within literary writing define it. The stereotype of a genre reader is that of a mouth breather, a nerd, a fanboy or girl, a housewife, someone generally uneducated. Literary peeps seem to be quick to try to divorce themselves from that, even if it’s not an accurate picture at all.
Gack. My italics got out of control. Apologies for not proofreading.
Gack. My italics got out of control. Apologies for not proofreading.
i really like thomas ligotti
i really like thomas ligotti
I disagree that literary people avoid genre. In fact, we are writing at a time when genre is becoming more and more common a playground for major literary writers (Evenson, Lethem, Saunders, Shepard, etc.) And Tin House of course publishes those authors and authors like them, and is known for doing that kind of thing.
As noted, this seems more like a debate of definitions. Most people who describe themselves as “genre writers” aren’t doing the kind of thing a magazine like Tin House would want to publish, even though we could sit here and debate endlessly what genre should mean or how everything is a genre or blah blah.
I disagree that literary people avoid genre. In fact, we are writing at a time when genre is becoming more and more common a playground for major literary writers (Evenson, Lethem, Saunders, Shepard, etc.) And Tin House of course publishes those authors and authors like them, and is known for doing that kind of thing.
As noted, this seems more like a debate of definitions. Most people who describe themselves as “genre writers” aren’t doing the kind of thing a magazine like Tin House would want to publish, even though we could sit here and debate endlessly what genre should mean or how everything is a genre or blah blah.
No offense, but if LeGuin is the example of good writing in genre then I think that is a point made for the prosecution.
[…] business. I guess what rankles me about reading this kind of thing from a Tin House editor (via HTMLGiant, via Matthew Cheney) is that I want to believe that success in literature will tend to be […]
No offense, but if LeGuin is the example of good writing in genre then I think that is a point made for the prosecution.
I like her, but she wasn’t my example in the first place.
I like her, but she wasn’t my example in the first place.
Did I read a different response than the rest of the people on this thread? I thought the Tin House response was anything BUT knee-jerk.
Why is it so incendiary to state the obvious- that “genre” writing tends to privilege plot/story over character, and ease-of-use over depth/beauty/difficulty of language. Stephen King is one of my favorite writers, but I wouldn’t ever mistake Roland of Gilead for Humbert Humbert or Leopold Bloom. And you know what? Neither would he, which is the real point.
Britney Spears has put out a few songs I’ve really liked. That doesn’t make her Radiohead. And I’m not sure that saying “Britney Spears writes music in a way which produces things that don’t sound like OK Computer” is really an insult to Britney–neither is it saying anything particularly adulatory or useful about Radiohead. It’s just saying what is.
Did I read a different response than the rest of the people on this thread? I thought the Tin House response was anything BUT knee-jerk.
Why is it so incendiary to state the obvious- that “genre” writing tends to privilege plot/story over character, and ease-of-use over depth/beauty/difficulty of language. Stephen King is one of my favorite writers, but I wouldn’t ever mistake Roland of Gilead for Humbert Humbert or Leopold Bloom. And you know what? Neither would he, which is the real point.
Britney Spears has put out a few songs I’ve really liked. That doesn’t make her Radiohead. And I’m not sure that saying “Britney Spears writes music in a way which produces things that don’t sound like OK Computer” is really an insult to Britney–neither is it saying anything particularly adulatory or useful about Radiohead. It’s just saying what is.
Ninety percent of everything is shit (depending on who you ask). I could levy parallel claims against “literary” fiction, and would be right to do so. Of course if I did that, I would be understood properly as a barbarian. Within the literary Club, though, we are free to cast such stones at those ugly, smelly genre writers, who sometimes have the temerity to be successful in addition to being just as venal and small as the rest of us.
Ninety percent of everything is shit (depending on who you ask). I could levy parallel claims against “literary” fiction, and would be right to do so. Of course if I did that, I would be understood properly as a barbarian. Within the literary Club, though, we are free to cast such stones at those ugly, smelly genre writers, who sometimes have the temerity to be successful in addition to being just as venal and small as the rest of us.
Why is it so incendiary to state the obvious- that “genre” writing tends to privilege plot/story over character, and ease-of-use over depth/beauty/difficulty of language
Because it’s not obvious, it’s a stereotype. There are plenty of genre writers with well-developed or complex characters and beautiful and expertly-crafted writing. Stating otherwise belies an ignorance with genre work.
Why is it so incendiary to state the obvious- that “genre” writing tends to privilege plot/story over character, and ease-of-use over depth/beauty/difficulty of language
Because it’s not obvious, it’s a stereotype. There are plenty of genre writers with well-developed or complex characters and beautiful and expertly-crafted writing. Stating otherwise belies an ignorance with genre work.
i have never met anyone in the “literary club” who doesn’t think 90% of literary fiction is shit.
i have never met anyone in the “literary club” who doesn’t think 90% of literary fiction is shit.
Then why should genre fiction be specifically named and taken to task, as if it were exceptional in this? Say for argument’s sake that genre fiction is 95% shit instead of literary fiction’s 90%. Do the extra five percent make all the difference?
Then why should genre fiction be specifically named and taken to task, as if it were exceptional in this? Say for argument’s sake that genre fiction is 95% shit instead of literary fiction’s 90%. Do the extra five percent make all the difference?
Honestly, which is the sillier knee-jerk reaction? Saying a great literary work isn’t genre fiction because it is good or using some simplistic surface level ruler to let one call something genre fiction?
Honestly, which is the sillier knee-jerk reaction? Saying a great literary work isn’t genre fiction because it is good or using some simplistic surface level ruler to let one call something genre fiction?
Mike, avoiding stating my own opinion here, I think you are mischaracterizing whatever debate exists. No one is saying 10% of literary fiction is “good” and 5% of genre is good and thus genre fiction is worse. They are arguing, I assume, that even the 5% of genre fiction that is good isn’t anywhere near as good/important/whatever as the best literary fiction.
Again, not saying that is my opinion, but argument is likely more over how good the good work is that what percentage of it is bad.
Mike, avoiding stating my own opinion here, I think you are mischaracterizing whatever debate exists. No one is saying 10% of literary fiction is “good” and 5% of genre is good and thus genre fiction is worse. They are arguing, I assume, that even the 5% of genre fiction that is good isn’t anywhere near as good/important/whatever as the best literary fiction.
Again, not saying that is my opinion, but argument is likely more over how good the good work is that what percentage of it is bad.
What is your definition of a genre writer?
What is your definition of a genre writer?
The former.
If a writer’s best way of telling a story is to use tropes that are established traditional components of “genre” writing, or, for whatever reason, they enjoy writing using these genre tropes–if time travel or space travel or impossible genetic engineering or vampires are present–it’s only logical to assume that work is part of that genre. It’s really, really silly to deny that it is (especially if a writer says it is–such as in the case of Vonnegut or LeGuin or Bradbury). That’s what strikes me as particularly laughable about the Tin House definition of “genre”; nowhere does it mention that a genre work would usually contain the tropes of a genre. Nope. Genre work is just bad writing.
That’s a counterintuitive definition if I ever heard one.
The former.
If a writer’s best way of telling a story is to use tropes that are established traditional components of “genre” writing, or, for whatever reason, they enjoy writing using these genre tropes–if time travel or space travel or impossible genetic engineering or vampires are present–it’s only logical to assume that work is part of that genre. It’s really, really silly to deny that it is (especially if a writer says it is–such as in the case of Vonnegut or LeGuin or Bradbury). That’s what strikes me as particularly laughable about the Tin House definition of “genre”; nowhere does it mention that a genre work would usually contain the tropes of a genre. Nope. Genre work is just bad writing.
That’s a counterintuitive definition if I ever heard one.
Lincoln — a fair point, but not, I think, really true. If one concedes at the outset that writers like Vonnegut, at least, are amazing and important to the same extent as David Foster Wallace or whatever, then we’ve conceded the premise that some genre fiction is as good as the best literary fiction and it truly is a question of percentages. And once we’ve started using numbers, the absurdity of the exercise is revealed.
On the other hand, anyone who would deny that Vonnegut ferinstance is as good as any literary writer, or not actually a genre writer by definition because he is so good, isn’t really worth your time or mine. So either we’re talking percentages (where I feel very comfortable with my case) or we’re not talking at all.
Lincoln — a fair point, but not, I think, really true. If one concedes at the outset that writers like Vonnegut, at least, are amazing and important to the same extent as David Foster Wallace or whatever, then we’ve conceded the premise that some genre fiction is as good as the best literary fiction and it truly is a question of percentages. And once we’ve started using numbers, the absurdity of the exercise is revealed.
On the other hand, anyone who would deny that Vonnegut ferinstance is as good as any literary writer, or not actually a genre writer by definition because he is so good, isn’t really worth your time or mine. So either we’re talking percentages (where I feel very comfortable with my case) or we’re not talking at all.
So where is the line here? Does really just the appearance of a few tropes turn something into genre work? If I rewrote War and Peace and make count pierre a robot, has that really turned it into a sci-fi book? Does it matter how the tropes are used?
I don’t really know anyone who doesn’t call LeGuin a genre writer though or would deny Vonnegut that title.
So where is the line here? Does really just the appearance of a few tropes turn something into genre work? If I rewrote War and Peace and make count pierre a robot, has that really turned it into a sci-fi book? Does it matter how the tropes are used?
I don’t really know anyone who doesn’t call LeGuin a genre writer though or would deny Vonnegut that title.
Perhaps… I still feel like we are headed towards a semantic battle.
It is, I think, odd that “genre” in literature is used so differently than it is in film or music.
Perhaps… I still feel like we are headed towards a semantic battle.
It is, I think, odd that “genre” in literature is used so differently than it is in film or music.
A writer whose work utilizes, through plot or setting, the common elements and conventions of a particular category (such as fantasy or romance) of fiction.
Or, in the case of speculative poetry, a writer whose work utilizes common science fiction or fantasy plot or character elements within verse. I don’t know about any other types of genre poetry, though.
A writer whose work utilizes, through plot or setting, the common elements and conventions of a particular category (such as fantasy or romance) of fiction.
Or, in the case of speculative poetry, a writer whose work utilizes common science fiction or fantasy plot or character elements within verse. I don’t know about any other types of genre poetry, though.
I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who says that Pride and Prejudice and Zombies isn’t a horror novel. There are writers and readers who are fond of terms like “slipstream” to refer to in-between works; I really only think terms like that are necessary if your definition of genre is a particularly pejorative one. If there’s nothing wrong with science fiction novels, what’s the problem calling War and Peace and Robots a sci-fi novel rather than a “novel with science fiction elements”?
I referred to LeGuin because of what PHM wrote: “Now, this notwithstanding, there are some great examples of literature written by people who fell into a genre category voluntarily–The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin and of course Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, plus weren’t A Clockwork Orange, 1984, and Brave New World all categorized thusly? They were categorized to sell. I happen to doubt they were written with ‘genre’ in mind,” and to Vonnegut because the author of the Tin House article wrote, on another blog: “I would never call Player Piano a ‘sci-fi’ novel.” I agree with you–it seems silly and alien to me to deny any of these writers a genre title, or to suggest that they just sort of happened across genre elements without conspicuously choosing them, since it’s how they defined/define themselves as writers.
I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who says that Pride and Prejudice and Zombies isn’t a horror novel. There are writers and readers who are fond of terms like “slipstream” to refer to in-between works; I really only think terms like that are necessary if your definition of genre is a particularly pejorative one. If there’s nothing wrong with science fiction novels, what’s the problem calling War and Peace and Robots a sci-fi novel rather than a “novel with science fiction elements”?
I referred to LeGuin because of what PHM wrote: “Now, this notwithstanding, there are some great examples of literature written by people who fell into a genre category voluntarily–The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin and of course Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, plus weren’t A Clockwork Orange, 1984, and Brave New World all categorized thusly? They were categorized to sell. I happen to doubt they were written with ‘genre’ in mind,” and to Vonnegut because the author of the Tin House article wrote, on another blog: “I would never call Player Piano a ‘sci-fi’ novel.” I agree with you–it seems silly and alien to me to deny any of these writers a genre title, or to suggest that they just sort of happened across genre elements without conspicuously choosing them, since it’s how they defined/define themselves as writers.
I guess I have a hard time believing a genre is as meaningless as a few small tropes or some simple reading of the genre title, like saying since Sci-fi means science fiction then anything whatsoever that includes any made up science is a sci-fi book.
I actually find that to be something of an insult to the temr.
I guess I have a hard time believing a genre is as meaningless as a few small tropes or some simple reading of the genre title, like saying since Sci-fi means science fiction then anything whatsoever that includes any made up science is a sci-fi book.
I actually find that to be something of an insult to the temr.
Well, defining individual genres is a mite more difficult and your definition of “science fiction” is extremely loose, although I know one SF writer who argued that a MS she was working on, set entirely in modern times about a scientist who finds a cure for cancer via incorporating genetic elements of starfish into human DNA, was science fiction.
Whether it’s a meaningless designation depends entirely on the reader. I’ve known plenty of people who would only read fantasy novels, or who refuse to watch science fiction movies because “they don’t like science fiction.” To them, it seems like that would be an incredibly meaningful distinction.
Well, defining individual genres is a mite more difficult and your definition of “science fiction” is extremely loose, although I know one SF writer who argued that a MS she was working on, set entirely in modern times about a scientist who finds a cure for cancer via incorporating genetic elements of starfish into human DNA, was science fiction.
Whether it’s a meaningless designation depends entirely on the reader. I’ve known plenty of people who would only read fantasy novels, or who refuse to watch science fiction movies because “they don’t like science fiction.” To them, it seems like that would be an incredibly meaningful distinction.
i don’t have a problem with genres; i just think we should make new ones.
i don’t have a problem with genres; i just think we should make new ones.
Phoebe- here’s the thing. Just because good or great genre writing exists, that doesn’t obligate a literary magazine to become an organ for the promulgation of genre writing. There is great architecture criticism in the world, too. You won’t read it in Foreign Affairs.
I think the mistake being made here is the presumption that because two kinds of art make use of the same medium (writing) they are therefore the same. Back to my music analogy- Britney Spears’s “Womanizer” obviously draws on certain recognizable elements of punk music. But that doesn’t make her Johnny Rotten.
The real issue here is this idea of “common elements.” Based on your own definition, genre is writing which sets certain constraints and frameworks for itself, then attempts at original composition within–or bending or breaking–the confines of those frames/limits. But the point is that the frame comes first, and all achievement within the form is understood in terms of the relationship between the genre’s hallmarks and the writer’s ability to manipulate/invigorate same. This sounds to me a lot like formalism, and so given that the journals we’re talking about largely eschew formalist verse, it shouldn’t really be a surprise that they likewise look askance at “formalist prose.”
Phoebe- here’s the thing. Just because good or great genre writing exists, that doesn’t obligate a literary magazine to become an organ for the promulgation of genre writing. There is great architecture criticism in the world, too. You won’t read it in Foreign Affairs.
I think the mistake being made here is the presumption that because two kinds of art make use of the same medium (writing) they are therefore the same. Back to my music analogy- Britney Spears’s “Womanizer” obviously draws on certain recognizable elements of punk music. But that doesn’t make her Johnny Rotten.
The real issue here is this idea of “common elements.” Based on your own definition, genre is writing which sets certain constraints and frameworks for itself, then attempts at original composition within–or bending or breaking–the confines of those frames/limits. But the point is that the frame comes first, and all achievement within the form is understood in terms of the relationship between the genre’s hallmarks and the writer’s ability to manipulate/invigorate same. This sounds to me a lot like formalism, and so given that the journals we’re talking about largely eschew formalist verse, it shouldn’t really be a surprise that they likewise look askance at “formalist prose.”
Hey, I have no problem with the editors of a journal saying “I don’t really like stuff with robots or aliens. Let’s not take that kind of work.” That’s a totally different proposition than saying “Genre work is bad in terms of writing. We don’t like bad writing. Therefore we don’t take genre work.” The first is reflective of, maybe, bad taste; the second is reflective of flawed logic and misinformation about what genre work is.
But the point is that the frame comes first, and all achievement within the form is understood in terms of the relationship between the genre’s hallmarks and the writer’s ability to manipulate/invigorate same.
I think that’s highly dependent on the writer and the story involved. While you can be sure that genre writers are apparently more open to certain types of frames (otherwise they wouldn’t be using them), I think in many cases you’ll find that the frame exists for the writers to create a certain type of situation for the human or character elements of a story–the genre elements can sometimes be necessary for that (the recent film Moon was an example of this; it was a character vehicle, but one that wouldn’t have worked without certain specific genre elements and conceits.)
Hey, I have no problem with the editors of a journal saying “I don’t really like stuff with robots or aliens. Let’s not take that kind of work.” That’s a totally different proposition than saying “Genre work is bad in terms of writing. We don’t like bad writing. Therefore we don’t take genre work.” The first is reflective of, maybe, bad taste; the second is reflective of flawed logic and misinformation about what genre work is.
But the point is that the frame comes first, and all achievement within the form is understood in terms of the relationship between the genre’s hallmarks and the writer’s ability to manipulate/invigorate same.
I think that’s highly dependent on the writer and the story involved. While you can be sure that genre writers are apparently more open to certain types of frames (otherwise they wouldn’t be using them), I think in many cases you’ll find that the frame exists for the writers to create a certain type of situation for the human or character elements of a story–the genre elements can sometimes be necessary for that (the recent film Moon was an example of this; it was a character vehicle, but one that wouldn’t have worked without certain specific genre elements and conceits.)
It might be lazy. But it might also be a product of the old Writers Market books (pre-Internet), where I think lit mags were limited to how many words they got in describing what they wanted. So a short hand developed, and has stuck.
It might be lazy. But it might also be a product of the old Writers Market books (pre-Internet), where I think lit mags were limited to how many words they got in describing what they wanted. So a short hand developed, and has stuck.
Yeah, what Phoebe said.
Justin, with all due respect, I’m not really convinced you’ve read enough genre fiction to know what you’re talking about here, given the way you describe it. You’re definitely writing about its composition from a perspective that seems rather divorced from the reality of the thing, if you seriously believe writers of genre (say, Vonnegut, to use the perrenial example) are deciding to write science fiction and THEN asking themselves what they can bring to the table.
And, again, I could turn everything you’re saying back on “literary” fiction. Literary fiction is usually written with the frame chosen first, after all — everything that happens within it must be basically believable, or at least draw from certain spiritual/religious traditions considered legitimate within the “literary” world. It will follow certain conventions and tropes.
Of course it doesn’t seem like a choice to write only about possible or likely things because we’re operating in a discourse that privileges them. And to some extent that’s even fair, although it does bespeak a certain lack of imagination. But to pretend that only genre writers are working within certain constraints is flatly ludicrous. Go out there, read a Vonnegut book, read some China Mieville, then come back to me and tell me how they were working within a restrictive genre frame while, say, Alice Munro and Joyce Carol Oats are not. Which writers will have more in common? On the one hand, it’s all a matter of perspective. On the other hand, broadening one’s perspective enough to accomodate the question in the first place should be instructive.
Fundamentally, we’re talking on a blog populated by many wildly experimental writers, many of whom publish online often, about which writing we can safely exclude and disregard. There is some irony there, I think, and a reminder that self-awareness is key. As Phoebe says, it would be one thing if the claim was that “genre fiction isn’t our bag.” I hardly expect everyone to love it. The dismissal is what irks. And since it is a major part of my life’s project so far to write what could be called genre fiction, you can see why it might gall me in particular to see such insular, self-serving ignorance dressed up as profound literary insight.
Yeah, what Phoebe said.
Justin, with all due respect, I’m not really convinced you’ve read enough genre fiction to know what you’re talking about here, given the way you describe it. You’re definitely writing about its composition from a perspective that seems rather divorced from the reality of the thing, if you seriously believe writers of genre (say, Vonnegut, to use the perrenial example) are deciding to write science fiction and THEN asking themselves what they can bring to the table.
And, again, I could turn everything you’re saying back on “literary” fiction. Literary fiction is usually written with the frame chosen first, after all — everything that happens within it must be basically believable, or at least draw from certain spiritual/religious traditions considered legitimate within the “literary” world. It will follow certain conventions and tropes.
Of course it doesn’t seem like a choice to write only about possible or likely things because we’re operating in a discourse that privileges them. And to some extent that’s even fair, although it does bespeak a certain lack of imagination. But to pretend that only genre writers are working within certain constraints is flatly ludicrous. Go out there, read a Vonnegut book, read some China Mieville, then come back to me and tell me how they were working within a restrictive genre frame while, say, Alice Munro and Joyce Carol Oats are not. Which writers will have more in common? On the one hand, it’s all a matter of perspective. On the other hand, broadening one’s perspective enough to accomodate the question in the first place should be instructive.
Fundamentally, we’re talking on a blog populated by many wildly experimental writers, many of whom publish online often, about which writing we can safely exclude and disregard. There is some irony there, I think, and a reminder that self-awareness is key. As Phoebe says, it would be one thing if the claim was that “genre fiction isn’t our bag.” I hardly expect everyone to love it. The dismissal is what irks. And since it is a major part of my life’s project so far to write what could be called genre fiction, you can see why it might gall me in particular to see such insular, self-serving ignorance dressed up as profound literary insight.
verything that happens within it must be basically believable, or at least draw from certain spiritual/religious traditions considered legitimate within the “literary” world. It will follow certain conventions and tropes.
It is a tad ironic that you follow a complaint about a naive definition/view of genre fiction with such a weird view of literary fiction. Since when does literary fiction have to be believable or spiritual? What does that have to do with a Coover or a Barthelme or even a Shakespeare?
Literary fiction is only about “possible” or “likely” things?
This definition seems more invented than any for genre…
Well that’s the goddamn point though, isn’t it? None of the stuff anyone here is saying about how genre works has any relationship to reality as I experience it. Of course literary fiction doesn’t have to be like that — nothing has to be like anything. That’s why you don’t dismiss whole categories of human endeavor sight unseen!
Well that’s the goddamn point though, isn’t it? None of the stuff anyone here is saying about how genre works has any relationship to reality as I experience it. Of course literary fiction doesn’t have to be like that — nothing has to be like anything. That’s why you don’t dismiss whole categories of human endeavor sight unseen!
We can have differences of opinion on this stuff, but I think assuming anyone who disagrees about genre fiction hasn’t read any of it or what not is a weak line of argument. I’m sure Justin has read plenty of genre fiction, he already said he loves Stephen King.
Anyway, the problem is that “literary” isn’t really a genre or a label that means much except work of high artistic merit. As a word it seems fundamentally different from a word like “sci-fI” or “true crime” or whatever genre labels we might use, all of which have much more specific meanings.
So perhaps the term is merely unhelpful…as I said, these arguments tend to turn into semantic battles.
You’re right, that is weak sauce on my part. I only mean to suggest that what he wrote betrays a lack of understanding. He may have read every story with a robot, elf, or ghost on this planet for all I know.
And you’re right that “literary” tends to mean that — except when it means another, more specific sort of story, usually centering on cancer or infidelity or racism or things like that. And the fact that the latter often claims that the former is exclusively its domain is the root of the problem here. And my issue with your hand-waving “it’s all semantics” response is that it works out very well for you if you are a member of the club, which I often have the good fortune of being myself. And if you aren’t in the club, well, you’re being rude when you ask for better consideration.
I have a feeling I should probably let go here. What maddens me is simply this: the position that genre writing is not “literary” in the broader sense you favor, and that this lack of “literary” quality is in fact what defines it as mere “genre” fiction, is clearly and wholly indefensible, on its very face. I am sad to see people I respect taking it seriously.
You’re right, that is weak sauce on my part. I only mean to suggest that what he wrote betrays a lack of understanding. He may have read every story with a robot, elf, or ghost on this planet for all I know.
And you’re right that “literary” tends to mean that — except when it means another, more specific sort of story, usually centering on cancer or infidelity or racism or things like that. And the fact that the latter often claims that the former is exclusively its domain is the root of the problem here. And my issue with your hand-waving “it’s all semantics” response is that it works out very well for you if you are a member of the club, which I often have the good fortune of being myself. And if you aren’t in the club, well, you’re being rude when you ask for better consideration.
I have a feeling I should probably let go here. What maddens me is simply this: the position that genre writing is not “literary” in the broader sense you favor, and that this lack of “literary” quality is in fact what defines it as mere “genre” fiction, is clearly and wholly indefensible, on its very face. I am sad to see people I respect taking it seriously.
Mike,
Right I certainly agree that these terms have different and often contradictory definitions. Literary fiction may mean art of high artistic merit (this seems to be the definition the Tin House person is operating under, as they talk about McCarthy and Vonnegut writing literary fiction) but it is definitely also used to mean Carver ripoffs about married couples who have epiphanies after getting cancer. Likewise some people use genre to mean any fiction which uses a one or more tropes that could be called sci-fi or fantasy or whatever, while others use the term to mean generic and unartistically written versions of that.
For whatever its worth, I imagine you and said Tin House editor would be more on the same page just talking about what books you like without using terms.
Justin, these were my thoughts, too. When I think “genre,” I don’t think “anything that employs elements of sci-fi/fantasy/romance/etc.” In my mind, the very definition of genre is not just that it employs those things, but that it employs them in a very formulaic and predictable way. I submit things all the time that contain elements of fantasy or science fiction, and it never even occurs to me as a concern that those elements would qualify those pieces as “genre” writing. To me, assuming that “genre” includes every work with elements of mystery or fantasy would be no different than saying every love story is inherently the same thing as “a romance novel.” To me, “genre” refers to a formula and a valuing of “commercial appeal” (like your example of Britney), not to any particular subject matter.
Justin, these were my thoughts, too. When I think “genre,” I don’t think “anything that employs elements of sci-fi/fantasy/romance/etc.” In my mind, the very definition of genre is not just that it employs those things, but that it employs them in a very formulaic and predictable way. I submit things all the time that contain elements of fantasy or science fiction, and it never even occurs to me as a concern that those elements would qualify those pieces as “genre” writing. To me, assuming that “genre” includes every work with elements of mystery or fantasy would be no different than saying every love story is inherently the same thing as “a romance novel.” To me, “genre” refers to a formula and a valuing of “commercial appeal” (like your example of Britney), not to any particular subject matter.
This whole conversation is a departure from the good sense that has kept us from wasting out time for years. If an established writer writes something that genre-lovers herald as “genre fiction,” we’re not reading it because it’s genre but because we trust the writer not to waste our time.
I’ve hung around these genre types before. The other major debate you can get into with them is whether or not to use an outline–most of them support the use of that retarded tool. Not that an outline or anything like that can never be useful, but for me it tends to ruin the process when you place depth after order in your priorities list. For instance–x does y and g comes along. To write that paragraph as taken from an outline you may not be as involved in what x, y, and g are to you and to your reader as you would be if you wrote the story as it appeared in your head.
I dunno. The other thing is that they think stories less than 2,000 words long are a waste of time. This is my experience with these people.
This whole conversation is a departure from the good sense that has kept us from wasting out time for years. If an established writer writes something that genre-lovers herald as “genre fiction,” we’re not reading it because it’s genre but because we trust the writer not to waste our time.
I’ve hung around these genre types before. The other major debate you can get into with them is whether or not to use an outline–most of them support the use of that retarded tool. Not that an outline or anything like that can never be useful, but for me it tends to ruin the process when you place depth after order in your priorities list. For instance–x does y and g comes along. To write that paragraph as taken from an outline you may not be as involved in what x, y, and g are to you and to your reader as you would be if you wrote the story as it appeared in your head.
I dunno. The other thing is that they think stories less than 2,000 words long are a waste of time. This is my experience with these people.
This is very, very far from the definitions that the authors, readers, and publishers of this sort of work work use. Even in the case of romance, which can be seen as undoubtedly more formulaic in terms of plot than other “genre” writing, the commonly used definition (lifted from wikipedia) hinges on traits common to novels of the category: “According to the Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two people as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. Both the conflict and the climax of the novel should be directly related to that core theme of developing a romantic relationship, although the novel can also contain subplots that do not specifically relate to the main characters’ romantic love. Furthermore, a romance novel must have an ’emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.'”
What good is it to utilize a definition totally divorced from the reality of those working–reading, writing, publishing–in genre? What good does it do to utilize “personal” definitions of commercial and artistic terms?
The biggest irony I find in all of this is that, were you more open to labeling yourself a “genre” writer, since it sounds like you are (using fantasy or science fiction elements), you’d open yourself up to markets that contain expertly crafted fiction, that have loyal and enthusiastic readerships, and that, by and large, pay. I know that, as writers dedicated to issues of craft and excellence, we’re supposed to eschew worrying about things like payment (hence all the sneering about commercial appeal here), but if you can place your work next to other excellent work, have lots of people read it, and get paid, well, frankly, I can’t think of a better situation for a writer. Any writer. Genre or not.
This is very, very far from the definitions that the authors, readers, and publishers of this sort of work work use. Even in the case of romance, which can be seen as undoubtedly more formulaic in terms of plot than other “genre” writing, the commonly used definition (lifted from wikipedia) hinges on traits common to novels of the category: “According to the Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two people as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. Both the conflict and the climax of the novel should be directly related to that core theme of developing a romantic relationship, although the novel can also contain subplots that do not specifically relate to the main characters’ romantic love. Furthermore, a romance novel must have an ’emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.'”
What good is it to utilize a definition totally divorced from the reality of those working–reading, writing, publishing–in genre? What good does it do to utilize “personal” definitions of commercial and artistic terms?
The biggest irony I find in all of this is that, were you more open to labeling yourself a “genre” writer, since it sounds like you are (using fantasy or science fiction elements), you’d open yourself up to markets that contain expertly crafted fiction, that have loyal and enthusiastic readerships, and that, by and large, pay. I know that, as writers dedicated to issues of craft and excellence, we’re supposed to eschew worrying about things like payment (hence all the sneering about commercial appeal here), but if you can place your work next to other excellent work, have lots of people read it, and get paid, well, frankly, I can’t think of a better situation for a writer. Any writer. Genre or not.
Mike, I don’t think Vonnegut is a genre writer. In fact, here’s a great case-in-point. Two “sci-fi” writers: Vonnegut and Philip K Dick. The former, not a genre writer. The latter, absolutely & inescapably one. if you’ve read half as much as you’ve accused me of not reading, this distinction ought to be completely self-explanatory as well as satisfying.
re Oates- like her or lump her, she’s probably got the widest range of any living writer, at least in terms of topic. Hasn’t she written everything from strict realism to horror to crime novels to criticism to “literary novels” to a nonfiction book about boxing? I’m not sure why you’re bringing her up here, since she doesn’t really fit as an example of genre or non-genre writing, unless your argument is that she seems to have a sense of genre at least as distinct as my own, which is how she can wake up in the morning and decide whether she wants to write “in” genre or not on that given day.
The problem with China Mieville is not that he’s genre, it’s rather that he sucks. I read King Rat, and I’ve got to tell you, it was idiotic, as well as stunningly boring. I’ll admit to being intrigued by some of the dialects and the descriptions of what I took to be the then-contemporary British underground house/techno scene, but those things would have been more interesting in a novel that could actually take the time to explore them, instead of being concerned with re-telling the Pied Piper fairytale and having a war between spiders and rats and birds, or whatever the fuck it was.
In fact, the lionization of Mieville seems to me to point out the exact fundamental problem with genre writing, and the reason why it is such a maligned/sidelined form. Because the archetypes of any given genre are so rigid, anybody who pushes against them or shakes them up–even if that push is nominal, and even if the result is shit–can be crowned king of the hill, because within the close-walled world of a given genre, every little firecracker sounds like a thunder crack. The problem is not that genre *can’t* be high-quality writing, it’s the fact that it is *allowed* not to be. And Philip K Dick is again the paradigmatic example. His books fascinate me. I love him as a dystopianist and as a spiritual thinker. He’s in the Library of America. But that doesn’t change the fact that he is a terrible, I mean truly reprehensible writer. But this is EXACTLY my point- I come to read PKD novels because they have a value apart from their value-as-literature.
It comes back to what I said originally- the defining characteristic of genre writing is that the work relates to itself primarily and ultimately through the lens of its being-as-form. Even its non-genre elements are defined in terms of their negative relationship to the archetypes, the standard, the hallmarks, the form of the given genre.
Look at the dismissive way you wrote that literary writing is “usually centering on cancer or infidelity or racism or things like that.” Now explain to me the way in which those things you named are in any way similar. What, exactly, is the category that can hold them all? Like, they’re all part of the “genre” called “stuff that exists in the world.” And as I’m sure you yourself are thinking of pointing out, all those things exist within genre writing. Sci-fi stories have made for fantastic racial allegories, and many a Romance heroine has stepped out on a bad husband. This is how you know that these things are NOT in fact hallmarks of any particular genre.
Your talk about being “in the club” is also telling. I think the real issue is that you want magazines you view as “mainstream” and “prestigious” to start bestowing their laurels on things you are interested in, instead of what they are interested in. You want Blink 182 on the cover of Relix, and Iced Earth on the cover of Rolling Stone. Well, I don’t begrudge anyone their desires. I wish I was five inches taller, and that Mathias Svalina poems will be in this week’s New Yorker. Good luck to all three of us.
Mike, I don’t think Vonnegut is a genre writer. In fact, here’s a great case-in-point. Two “sci-fi” writers: Vonnegut and Philip K Dick. The former, not a genre writer. The latter, absolutely & inescapably one. if you’ve read half as much as you’ve accused me of not reading, this distinction ought to be completely self-explanatory as well as satisfying.
re Oates- like her or lump her, she’s probably got the widest range of any living writer, at least in terms of topic. Hasn’t she written everything from strict realism to horror to crime novels to criticism to “literary novels” to a nonfiction book about boxing? I’m not sure why you’re bringing her up here, since she doesn’t really fit as an example of genre or non-genre writing, unless your argument is that she seems to have a sense of genre at least as distinct as my own, which is how she can wake up in the morning and decide whether she wants to write “in” genre or not on that given day.
The problem with China Mieville is not that he’s genre, it’s rather that he sucks. I read King Rat, and I’ve got to tell you, it was idiotic, as well as stunningly boring. I’ll admit to being intrigued by some of the dialects and the descriptions of what I took to be the then-contemporary British underground house/techno scene, but those things would have been more interesting in a novel that could actually take the time to explore them, instead of being concerned with re-telling the Pied Piper fairytale and having a war between spiders and rats and birds, or whatever the fuck it was.
In fact, the lionization of Mieville seems to me to point out the exact fundamental problem with genre writing, and the reason why it is such a maligned/sidelined form. Because the archetypes of any given genre are so rigid, anybody who pushes against them or shakes them up–even if that push is nominal, and even if the result is shit–can be crowned king of the hill, because within the close-walled world of a given genre, every little firecracker sounds like a thunder crack. The problem is not that genre *can’t* be high-quality writing, it’s the fact that it is *allowed* not to be. And Philip K Dick is again the paradigmatic example. His books fascinate me. I love him as a dystopianist and as a spiritual thinker. He’s in the Library of America. But that doesn’t change the fact that he is a terrible, I mean truly reprehensible writer. But this is EXACTLY my point- I come to read PKD novels because they have a value apart from their value-as-literature.
It comes back to what I said originally- the defining characteristic of genre writing is that the work relates to itself primarily and ultimately through the lens of its being-as-form. Even its non-genre elements are defined in terms of their negative relationship to the archetypes, the standard, the hallmarks, the form of the given genre.
Look at the dismissive way you wrote that literary writing is “usually centering on cancer or infidelity or racism or things like that.” Now explain to me the way in which those things you named are in any way similar. What, exactly, is the category that can hold them all? Like, they’re all part of the “genre” called “stuff that exists in the world.” And as I’m sure you yourself are thinking of pointing out, all those things exist within genre writing. Sci-fi stories have made for fantastic racial allegories, and many a Romance heroine has stepped out on a bad husband. This is how you know that these things are NOT in fact hallmarks of any particular genre.
Your talk about being “in the club” is also telling. I think the real issue is that you want magazines you view as “mainstream” and “prestigious” to start bestowing their laurels on things you are interested in, instead of what they are interested in. You want Blink 182 on the cover of Relix, and Iced Earth on the cover of Rolling Stone. Well, I don’t begrudge anyone their desires. I wish I was five inches taller, and that Mathias Svalina poems will be in this week’s New Yorker. Good luck to all three of us.
This is so bizarre and divorced from reality that it’s not worth acknowledging except to say that it’s bizarre and divorced from reality.
This is so bizarre and divorced from reality that it’s not worth acknowledging except to say that it’s bizarre and divorced from reality.
Man, no. Just no. On a sentence level Phillip K. Dick is bad, yes, but he’s amazing. Amazing. I don’t know how to respond to this. Does it matter that Vonnegut self-identified as a genre writer as well? I guess not.
Man, no. Just no. On a sentence level Phillip K. Dick is bad, yes, but he’s amazing. Amazing. I don’t know how to respond to this. Does it matter that Vonnegut self-identified as a genre writer as well? I guess not.
I wish Mathias’s poems would be in this week’s New Yorker, too.
I wish Mathias’s poems would be in this week’s New Yorker, too.
Holy shit. PHM, I don’t want to be rude, but, then, you’re being incredibly rude. “These genre types.” “These people.” What the fuck? I’ve never used a damn outline. Of course stories shorter than 2,000 words can be great.
Forget it, forget it. Not worth my time.
Holy shit. PHM, I don’t want to be rude, but, then, you’re being incredibly rude. “These genre types.” “These people.” What the fuck? I’ve never used a damn outline. Of course stories shorter than 2,000 words can be great.
Forget it, forget it. Not worth my time.
Or that, while I love Vonnegut, his writing isn’t that amazing on a sentence level, either? Few writers of any genre (and here, I include the literary genre) are. Hemingway’s sparse prose isn’t that different from Larry Niven’s sparse prose.
(And, before someone says, “Ew, you like Larry Niven,” not particularly, but I don’t particularly love Hemingway, either.)
I think the real issue is that you want magazines you view as “mainstream” and “prestigious” to start bestowing their laurels on things you are interested in, instead of what they are interested in.
I think the real issue is that everyone is interested in interesting stories. While a magazine has a right to say “no robots, no cowboys”, they’re undoubtedly missing out on some terrific fiction if they do, just as they would if they said “no female narrators” or “no stories with dogs in them.” If your goal is to be an advocate of exceptional writing, the best way to do that is not to arbitrarily blacklist stories based on plot elements. It’s to seek out exceptional writing in all forms.
Or that, while I love Vonnegut, his writing isn’t that amazing on a sentence level, either? Few writers of any genre (and here, I include the literary genre) are. Hemingway’s sparse prose isn’t that different from Larry Niven’s sparse prose.
(And, before someone says, “Ew, you like Larry Niven,” not particularly, but I don’t particularly love Hemingway, either.)
I think the real issue is that you want magazines you view as “mainstream” and “prestigious” to start bestowing their laurels on things you are interested in, instead of what they are interested in.
I think the real issue is that everyone is interested in interesting stories. While a magazine has a right to say “no robots, no cowboys”, they’re undoubtedly missing out on some terrific fiction if they do, just as they would if they said “no female narrators” or “no stories with dogs in them.” If your goal is to be an advocate of exceptional writing, the best way to do that is not to arbitrarily blacklist stories based on plot elements. It’s to seek out exceptional writing in all forms.
Oh hey, but I will give you this: King Rat is not very good. You can’t judge him on that, though — you’ve got to read Perdido Street Station or at the very least The City & The City if you want to understand why people praise him.
In general I think we disagree on enough here that there’s no productive conversation to be had. Sorry if I’ve been a dick. I do wish, though, that you weren’t so comfortable dismissing things I love so much, and things I’ve built with my hands, sight unseen.
Oh hey, but I will give you this: King Rat is not very good. You can’t judge him on that, though — you’ve got to read Perdido Street Station or at the very least The City & The City if you want to understand why people praise him.
In general I think we disagree on enough here that there’s no productive conversation to be had. Sorry if I’ve been a dick. I do wish, though, that you weren’t so comfortable dismissing things I love so much, and things I’ve built with my hands, sight unseen.
[…] those who disagreed with me even) have poured hideous scorn on myself and the works of those I love in response to an initially very reasonable post. The crowning achievement in contempt comes from PHM: This […]
I’m with Justin on this.
Someone cannot “suck at a sentence level” and be any good as a writer. There’s no other level. Unless he’s writing in hieroglyphs.
And Vonnegut, Phoebe, is actually quite amazing at the sentence level. Amazing clarity of prose. Distinctive voice. What the fuck else do you people want?
I’m with Justin on this.
Someone cannot “suck at a sentence level” and be any good as a writer. There’s no other level. Unless he’s writing in hieroglyphs.
And Vonnegut, Phoebe, is actually quite amazing at the sentence level. Amazing clarity of prose. Distinctive voice. What the fuck else do you people want?
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
SYSTEM ERROR
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
SYSTEM ERROR
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
ERROR
FICTION IS ABOUT TRANSMITTING IDEAS
IF IDEAS ARE TRANSMITTED WRITER CAN “SUCK AT SENTENCE LEVEL” IF HE OR SHE SUCCEEDS IN GETTING POINT ACROSS
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
ERROR
FICTION IS ABOUT TRANSMITTING IDEAS
IF IDEAS ARE TRANSMITTED WRITER CAN “SUCK AT SENTENCE LEVEL” IF HE OR SHE SUCCEEDS IN GETTING POINT ACROSS
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
“IF IDEAS ARE TRANSMITTED WRITER CAN “SUCK AT SENTENCE LEVEL” IF HE OR SHE SUCCEEDS IN GETTING POINT ACROSS”
I thought we were talking about writing as art (literature, whatever), not journalism or something.
“IF IDEAS ARE TRANSMITTED WRITER CAN “SUCK AT SENTENCE LEVEL” IF HE OR SHE SUCCEEDS IN GETTING POINT ACROSS”
I thought we were talking about writing as art (literature, whatever), not journalism or something.
Vonnegut’s style is fairly straight-forward and plainspoken; the sentences work, but aren’t doing anything particularly artful (I am saying this is as someone coming from a poetry background, so by “artful” I mean a certain degree of complexity and richness and rhythm and so on). It’s functional prose; it works well in communicating his ideas, which are what’s really amazing about his writing.
Vonnegut’s style is fairly straight-forward and plainspoken; the sentences work, but aren’t doing anything particularly artful (I am saying this is as someone coming from a poetry background, so by “artful” I mean a certain degree of complexity and richness and rhythm and so on). It’s functional prose; it works well in communicating his ideas, which are what’s really amazing about his writing.
I would say that excellent ideas can easily elevate writing with just-okay or merely-inoffensive prose to the level of art. A balance of ideas and skill are ideal, though.
I would say that excellent ideas can easily elevate writing with just-okay or merely-inoffensive prose to the level of art. A balance of ideas and skill are ideal, though.
LITERATURE IS ALSO MADE UP OF IDEAS. IDEAS ARE BUILDING BLOCKS OF SENTENCES. IDEAS CAN BE LITERAL OR IMPLIED. YOUR IDEA OF LITERATURE, ART, LACKING IDEAS FRIGHTENS AND CONFUSES ME.
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
LITERATURE IS ALSO MADE UP OF IDEAS. IDEAS ARE BUILDING BLOCKS OF SENTENCES. IDEAS CAN BE LITERAL OR IMPLIED. YOUR IDEA OF LITERATURE, ART, LACKING IDEAS FRIGHTENS AND CONFUSES ME.
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
You know, I don’t even care. You people are always going to cling to shallow classifications because they make you feel better about the hopelessness of what you’re doing. Or something. I stick to my original point that genre was an invention not of the writers but of the salesmen who made the writers rich. If it makes you feel better and more hopeful to tell yourself you are a “science fiction writer” or a “fantasy writer” or whatever, that doesn’t even bother me. If I write a story that takes place amongst robots in a melon field on Mars and don’t classify it as a science fiction and publish it in a lit mag like Juked or Tin House or something, I am not going to feel guilty about it. If everything I write after this is classified as “speculative” and is only ever published in “speculative fiction” magazines, and history remembers me as such, I’m still never going to put on my blog or website or anything “writer of speculative fiction.” I don’t even like differentiating between fiction and poetry and non-fiction, etc, because I find even those divisions a bit more limiting to me when I look at an empty slate. This is sort of untrue, but my point is that you fucking genre types can’t get over your genre bullshit. You’re self-segregating, have been for years and years, and, many times in this thread, also bordering on self-righteous–oh those blasted literary types and their fucking weak/untrue criticisms which I’ve spent years thinking about!
You know, I don’t even care. You people are always going to cling to shallow classifications because they make you feel better about the hopelessness of what you’re doing. Or something. I stick to my original point that genre was an invention not of the writers but of the salesmen who made the writers rich. If it makes you feel better and more hopeful to tell yourself you are a “science fiction writer” or a “fantasy writer” or whatever, that doesn’t even bother me. If I write a story that takes place amongst robots in a melon field on Mars and don’t classify it as a science fiction and publish it in a lit mag like Juked or Tin House or something, I am not going to feel guilty about it. If everything I write after this is classified as “speculative” and is only ever published in “speculative fiction” magazines, and history remembers me as such, I’m still never going to put on my blog or website or anything “writer of speculative fiction.” I don’t even like differentiating between fiction and poetry and non-fiction, etc, because I find even those divisions a bit more limiting to me when I look at an empty slate. This is sort of untrue, but my point is that you fucking genre types can’t get over your genre bullshit. You’re self-segregating, have been for years and years, and, many times in this thread, also bordering on self-righteous–oh those blasted literary types and their fucking weak/untrue criticisms which I’ve spent years thinking about!
Wow. Uh. Good luck with all of that.
Wow. Uh. Good luck with all of that.
PS to Zip- unless you actually ARE Ryan. In which case, double points or something
PS to Zip- unless you actually ARE Ryan. In which case, double points or something
All art is made up of ideas, but art that doesn’t engage in the medium that it is in seems to… uh lack a little something.
A movie can have a great plot but if the acting and directing are horrible, not sure how good it is gonna be.
All art is made up of ideas, but art that doesn’t engage in the medium that it is in seems to… uh lack a little something.
A movie can have a great plot but if the acting and directing are horrible, not sure how good it is gonna be.
This is very, very far from the definitions that the authors, readers, and publishers of this sort of work work use.
This is kind of how I felt about what your definition seemed to be earlier in the thread. I don’t believe having a few tropes or superficial plot or setting elements is all it takes for something to be genre fiction. If Donald Barthelme writes a story where a robot appears, he isn’t necessarily writing science fiction. He wouldn’t regard himself that way I don’t’ think nor would his readers or publishers (or hard sci-fi fans or magazines for that matter).
This is very, very far from the definitions that the authors, readers, and publishers of this sort of work work use.
This is kind of how I felt about what your definition seemed to be earlier in the thread. I don’t believe having a few tropes or superficial plot or setting elements is all it takes for something to be genre fiction. If Donald Barthelme writes a story where a robot appears, he isn’t necessarily writing science fiction. He wouldn’t regard himself that way I don’t’ think nor would his readers or publishers (or hard sci-fi fans or magazines for that matter).
Also, how has no one noted that “fiction” is misspelled in the title post?
Also, how has no one noted that “fiction” is misspelled in the title post?
Haha — good eye, Lincoln. Fixed it.
Haha — good eye, Lincoln. Fixed it.
AGREED. TRANSMISSION MUST BE EFFECTIVE.
AGREED. TRANSMISSION MUST BE EFFECTIVE.
im not zip, if youre talking about me ryan instad of another ryan
im not zip, if youre talking about me ryan instad of another ryan
!!! Reporting first half transmission failure !!!
Message received: “Something”, “unless you actually ARE Ryan.”
“Something” implied. Does not exist in original message. What is “something”? What Ryan? Zip notices there are many.
!!! Reporting first half transmission failure !!!
Message received: “Something”, “unless you actually ARE Ryan.”
“Something” implied. Does not exist in original message. What is “something”? What Ryan? Zip notices there are many.
Actually, sci-fi fans often see this happen–with authors like Margaret Atwood and Cormac McCarthy and Michael Cunningham. And are pretty quick to say that “if it walks like science fiction, and quacks like science fiction, it is science fiction.” Hard sci-fi fans specifically have their own wars to fight over categorization, but I’ve never heard one even begrudgingly deny a writer like Cunningham the appellation of “soft sci-fi” when he’s writing about aliens. Labeling books according to their elements rather than (subjective) quality judgments about them is far more useful for readers, much less writers. If someone tells me that they hate science fiction, I’m not going to recommend them The Road or Oryx and Crake.
Actually, sci-fi fans often see this happen–with authors like Margaret Atwood and Cormac McCarthy and Michael Cunningham. And are pretty quick to say that “if it walks like science fiction, and quacks like science fiction, it is science fiction.” Hard sci-fi fans specifically have their own wars to fight over categorization, but I’ve never heard one even begrudgingly deny a writer like Cunningham the appellation of “soft sci-fi” when he’s writing about aliens. Labeling books according to their elements rather than (subjective) quality judgments about them is far more useful for readers, much less writers. If someone tells me that they hate science fiction, I’m not going to recommend them The Road or Oryx and Crake.
I wrote a book without once thinking about what “genre” it was. When it was done, and shaped into what I originally wanted it to be, I shopped it to a “genre” publisher because it seemed in-step with what they wanted. After its acceptance, they chose to market it as “sci-fi,” even though I never considered it as such. Seems to me that’s how McCarthy worked out The Road. I don’t know, though. I took a class on genre (dissected suspense/thriller novels and rebuilt them) in grad school and found the rules (and yes, there are RULES) and regulations to be stifling to creativity and expression. I’ll never, ever work that way.
I wrote a book without once thinking about what “genre” it was. When it was done, and shaped into what I originally wanted it to be, I shopped it to a “genre” publisher because it seemed in-step with what they wanted. After its acceptance, they chose to market it as “sci-fi,” even though I never considered it as such. Seems to me that’s how McCarthy worked out The Road. I don’t know, though. I took a class on genre (dissected suspense/thriller novels and rebuilt them) in grad school and found the rules (and yes, there are RULES) and regulations to be stifling to creativity and expression. I’ll never, ever work that way.
And yes, I used an outline.
And yes, I used an outline.
I guess we will just have to agree to disagree. To me, superficial elements like this are far less telling for readers than stylistic or aesthetic ones… and I’d find them even more useless for writers. Perhaps I just don’t understand writers and readers who only care about books with common plot and setting elements though.
I guess we will just have to agree to disagree. To me, superficial elements like this are far less telling for readers than stylistic or aesthetic ones… and I’d find them even more useless for writers. Perhaps I just don’t understand writers and readers who only care about books with common plot and setting elements though.
I mean take your Cormac example. It dude belongs to a genre it is going to be something like southern gothic, not sci-fi. The Road has far more in common with McCarthy’s other works than it does with Isaac Asimov. So how useful is it to call The Road a “sci-fi” book when the sci-fi elements are so few (basically merely that some unnamed apocalypse has happened) and so inessential to the experience of reading the book?
And was McCarthy really drawing on a history of sci-fi authors when he wrote it? Was that his inspiration? Is that really the lineage of the book?
To me, calling The Road a sci-fi book seems mostly like an attempt to claim a popular book for the genre’s own edification, not because it actually helps us understand The Road or anything like that.
I mean take your Cormac example. It dude belongs to a genre it is going to be something like southern gothic, not sci-fi. The Road has far more in common with McCarthy’s other works than it does with Isaac Asimov. So how useful is it to call The Road a “sci-fi” book when the sci-fi elements are so few (basically merely that some unnamed apocalypse has happened) and so inessential to the experience of reading the book?
And was McCarthy really drawing on a history of sci-fi authors when he wrote it? Was that his inspiration? Is that really the lineage of the book?
To me, calling The Road a sci-fi book seems mostly like an attempt to claim a popular book for the genre’s own edification, not because it actually helps us understand The Road or anything like that.
Does an author’s inspiration really matter? Dystopic/post apocalyptic sci-fi is a long-established sub-genre of science fiction. I mean, here are some of The Road‘s predecessors, all which have been marketed as sci-fi at one point or another: Alas, Babylon; Earth Abides; Riddley Walker; a Canticle for Leibowitz; Parable of the Sower & Parable of the Talents; 1984; Z for Zachariah; The Genocides; a bunch more I’m sure I’m forgetting. All of these books have more in common with one another, including The Road than they have with most of Asimov.
(I’ve heard people say that they feel like non sci-fi writers’ writing within the genre’s writing suffers because of a lack of familiarity with the sci-fi canon; I have a friend who always complains about what a rip-off he thinks the Road is of The Genocides. I’m not entirely sure a writer needs to read conceptually similar works when they’re writing something, but I suppose it can’t hurt.)
To me, calling The Road a sci-fi book seems mostly like an attempt to claim a popular book for the genre’s own edification, not because it actually helps us understand The Road or anything like that.
I wasn’t a big fan of The Road, actually, but I’m much more interested in calling it sci-fi because it’s a useful term for readers. If you hate post apocalyptic fiction–again, an accepted sub-genre of sci-fi–you probably won’t like The Road; if you liked the concepts of this book, there are other, similar books you might also be interested in.
Does an author’s inspiration really matter? Dystopic/post apocalyptic sci-fi is a long-established sub-genre of science fiction. I mean, here are some of The Road‘s predecessors, all which have been marketed as sci-fi at one point or another: Alas, Babylon; Earth Abides; Riddley Walker; a Canticle for Leibowitz; Parable of the Sower & Parable of the Talents; 1984; Z for Zachariah; The Genocides; a bunch more I’m sure I’m forgetting. All of these books have more in common with one another, including The Road than they have with most of Asimov.
(I’ve heard people say that they feel like non sci-fi writers’ writing within the genre’s writing suffers because of a lack of familiarity with the sci-fi canon; I have a friend who always complains about what a rip-off he thinks the Road is of The Genocides. I’m not entirely sure a writer needs to read conceptually similar works when they’re writing something, but I suppose it can’t hurt.)
To me, calling The Road a sci-fi book seems mostly like an attempt to claim a popular book for the genre’s own edification, not because it actually helps us understand The Road or anything like that.
I wasn’t a big fan of The Road, actually, but I’m much more interested in calling it sci-fi because it’s a useful term for readers. If you hate post apocalyptic fiction–again, an accepted sub-genre of sci-fi–you probably won’t like The Road; if you liked the concepts of this book, there are other, similar books you might also be interested in.
Phoebe:
What I think of in this regard is probably along the lines of what Justin was saying earlier with his music analogy. If you take a genre, he used punk, and abstract it to things like loud guitars you can call a lot of things punk including some Britney Spears songs, but I’m just not sure how that is useful.
I wasn’t a big fan of The Road, actually, but I’m much more interested in calling it sci-fi because it’s a useful term for readers.
Right, but what I’m saying is that I think it is completely useless. I think calling it sci-fi to someone would give a completely wrong impression of the book to a potential reader. Maybe calling it post-apocalyptic makes sense as that describes the actual setting of the book, but I don’t see where the label “sci-fi” would ever come in handy in a discussion of The Road. Again, it seems like a label only used by sci-fi fans to claim the book.
if you liked the concepts of this book, there are other, similar books you might also be interested in.
I don’t think The Road was anywhere near his best book, but whatever was great about it had little to do with “concepts” and referring someone to sci-fi books that explore similar concepts would be much less fruitful, IMHO, than referring them to books that were more aesthetically similar or something.
Phoebe:
What I think of in this regard is probably along the lines of what Justin was saying earlier with his music analogy. If you take a genre, he used punk, and abstract it to things like loud guitars you can call a lot of things punk including some Britney Spears songs, but I’m just not sure how that is useful.
I wasn’t a big fan of The Road, actually, but I’m much more interested in calling it sci-fi because it’s a useful term for readers.
Right, but what I’m saying is that I think it is completely useless. I think calling it sci-fi to someone would give a completely wrong impression of the book to a potential reader. Maybe calling it post-apocalyptic makes sense as that describes the actual setting of the book, but I don’t see where the label “sci-fi” would ever come in handy in a discussion of The Road. Again, it seems like a label only used by sci-fi fans to claim the book.
if you liked the concepts of this book, there are other, similar books you might also be interested in.
I don’t think The Road was anywhere near his best book, but whatever was great about it had little to do with “concepts” and referring someone to sci-fi books that explore similar concepts would be much less fruitful, IMHO, than referring them to books that were more aesthetically similar or something.
I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree, then. I do think that it’s common and actually okay for readers to look for books with what, to you guys, seem to be superficial similarities in plot and setting and character. I think genre labels (even if they might be the plot of evil publishers or whatever) are useful because of that. I’ve gone through plenty of stages in my life where I wanted to read, say, mostly post-apocalyptic novels, or historical novels about English aristocracy, or golden age children’s fantasy, or road trip novels. And I’m interested in deeper themes of novels, and excellent prose. I think you can be interested in, and acknowledge, the categories that fiction falls under–and even enjoy a work in part because of how a work uses the tropes of a category–and still appreciate aesthetic aspects of book. And because of that, I’d say that calling The Road “Post Apocalyptic Sci-fi” is completely accurate and apt. What’s that mean, if not “a book set after the end of the world”? What was The Road if not that?
I think that’s what these conversations within the high-literary world miss: that genre labels are useful descriptors for most readers and writers, even if the elements they’re referring to seem irrelevant to the high-literary world. After all, in the original question to Tin House, I’m sure by “genre” the asker didn’t mean “I write books with flat characterizations” but “I write books with plot or setting elements common to genre work.” Everyone likes good stories. But not everyone likes cowboys, robots, or aliens, and that’s where labels like “genre” or specific genre labels actually come in handy for, you know, meaningful communication.
So, yeah, we’ll probably have to agree to disagree.
I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree, then. I do think that it’s common and actually okay for readers to look for books with what, to you guys, seem to be superficial similarities in plot and setting and character. I think genre labels (even if they might be the plot of evil publishers or whatever) are useful because of that. I’ve gone through plenty of stages in my life where I wanted to read, say, mostly post-apocalyptic novels, or historical novels about English aristocracy, or golden age children’s fantasy, or road trip novels. And I’m interested in deeper themes of novels, and excellent prose. I think you can be interested in, and acknowledge, the categories that fiction falls under–and even enjoy a work in part because of how a work uses the tropes of a category–and still appreciate aesthetic aspects of book. And because of that, I’d say that calling The Road “Post Apocalyptic Sci-fi” is completely accurate and apt. What’s that mean, if not “a book set after the end of the world”? What was The Road if not that?
I think that’s what these conversations within the high-literary world miss: that genre labels are useful descriptors for most readers and writers, even if the elements they’re referring to seem irrelevant to the high-literary world. After all, in the original question to Tin House, I’m sure by “genre” the asker didn’t mean “I write books with flat characterizations” but “I write books with plot or setting elements common to genre work.” Everyone likes good stories. But not everyone likes cowboys, robots, or aliens, and that’s where labels like “genre” or specific genre labels actually come in handy for, you know, meaningful communication.
So, yeah, we’ll probably have to agree to disagree.
I can’t figure out the reply thing anymore.
Phoebe: you could not be more wrong about Vonnegut. Dude is a tremendous writer at the sentence level. And even if he’s only “clear” and “plainspoken,” you seem to lack an understanding of how difficult that is to do.
Zip (I can’t believe I’m replying to someone named Zip) — the point of fiction is not the transmission of ideas. That’s the point of an essay.
I can’t figure out the reply thing anymore.
Phoebe: you could not be more wrong about Vonnegut. Dude is a tremendous writer at the sentence level. And even if he’s only “clear” and “plainspoken,” you seem to lack an understanding of how difficult that is to do.
Zip (I can’t believe I’m replying to someone named Zip) — the point of fiction is not the transmission of ideas. That’s the point of an essay.
I didn’t know opinions could be wrong. Anyway, I love Vonnegut. I think he’s funny and clever and I think his prose works well for him. I still don’t think it’s amazingly well-crafted or anything like that.
I didn’t know opinions could be wrong. Anyway, I love Vonnegut. I think he’s funny and clever and I think his prose works well for him. I still don’t think it’s amazingly well-crafted or anything like that.
Of course opinions can be wrong.
Example: “The movie Crash is great cinema.”
Wrong.
that PS was an afterthought to a group response, but the site seems to have eaten it. oh well, not going back there now. but no, Call, I didn’t mean you. I meant Manning.
Of course opinions can be wrong.
Example: “The movie Crash is great cinema.”
Wrong.
that PS was an afterthought to a group response, but the site seems to have eaten it. oh well, not going back there now. but no, Call, I didn’t mean you. I meant Manning.
Hi there, thought I’d pitch in. Seems, in part, the conversation I was hoping to have on my own blog is happening here instead.
Listen, since it’s been pointed out that I may have not read enough “genre” fiction to judge it, I’d love for someone to give me a –SHORT– reading list. I’ve got a lot on my plate, but I’ll definitely try to squeeze in a few over the next couple months. I really have been intending to read stuff people think is good but never shows up in the Times. The only thing I ask is make it contemporary and semi-off-the radar as far as mainstream literary interests are concerned.
Also, I’ve updated some thoughts on Tin House’s blog if anyone’s interested in checking it out. And to re-iterate, my presumptions are in no way Tin House’s presumptions, which is something I didn’t think about when I published that first post.
I think the wonderful and difficult thing about this discussion is that art is so damn wiley. Things start at the fringes and become mainstream and then people rebel against them by starting back up at the fringes. Lines are crossed and re-crossed. People are desperate to classify things. Things are, on an organic level, impossible to classify.
You know, if we’re all here for the right reasons, as people who love books and stories, then I’d bet anything we can put our differences aside.
Hi there, thought I’d pitch in. Seems, in part, the conversation I was hoping to have on my own blog is happening here instead.
Listen, since it’s been pointed out that I may have not read enough “genre” fiction to judge it, I’d love for someone to give me a –SHORT– reading list. I’ve got a lot on my plate, but I’ll definitely try to squeeze in a few over the next couple months. I really have been intending to read stuff people think is good but never shows up in the Times. The only thing I ask is make it contemporary and semi-off-the radar as far as mainstream literary interests are concerned.
Also, I’ve updated some thoughts on Tin House’s blog if anyone’s interested in checking it out. And to re-iterate, my presumptions are in no way Tin House’s presumptions, which is something I didn’t think about when I published that first post.
I think the wonderful and difficult thing about this discussion is that art is so damn wiley. Things start at the fringes and become mainstream and then people rebel against them by starting back up at the fringes. Lines are crossed and re-crossed. People are desperate to classify things. Things are, on an organic level, impossible to classify.
You know, if we’re all here for the right reasons, as people who love books and stories, then I’d bet anything we can put our differences aside.
Obviously opinions can be wrong. It is the opinion of some that the Earth is flat, unmoving and the center of the universe.
Obviously opinions can be wrong. It is the opinion of some that the Earth is flat, unmoving and the center of the universe.
If you mean the Cronenberg film, then your opinion is wrong (in my opinion)
If you mean the Cronenberg film, then your opinion is wrong (in my opinion)
I’m never comfortable with calling something “genre”. Every piece of writing belongs to a genre (“literary” is a genre, after all). But, I’d say that the following are great pieces of genre writing:
We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
The Man in the High Castle by Phillip K Dick
The Shining by Stephen King (his only great novel, it’s really about alcoholism and not the surface story of a haunting)
Scars and other Distinguishing Marks by Matheson
Those aren’t new, but they are important. I’ve always thought that great writing is great writing, and it does not matter what category you try to force it into.
I’m never comfortable with calling something “genre”. Every piece of writing belongs to a genre (“literary” is a genre, after all). But, I’d say that the following are great pieces of genre writing:
We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
The Man in the High Castle by Phillip K Dick
The Shining by Stephen King (his only great novel, it’s really about alcoholism and not the surface story of a haunting)
Scars and other Distinguishing Marks by Matheson
Those aren’t new, but they are important. I’ve always thought that great writing is great writing, and it does not matter what category you try to force it into.
Still thinking about my list, but I would say IT is also a pretty great Stephen King book. I have my quibbles, but the thing is longer than the bible, so that’s sort of inevitable. There’s a lot to love in it.
Still thinking about my list, but I would say IT is also a pretty great Stephen King book. I have my quibbles, but the thing is longer than the bible, so that’s sort of inevitable. There’s a lot to love in it.
I was annoyed by IT. I loved it, all the great tropes and such, but King’s trick of making kids forget as they grow gets tiresome for some reason. For my Money King IS The Shining, but gets points for The Dead Zone and some of the better short stories (this from someone who idolized him as a kid, but grew past it)
I was annoyed by IT. I loved it, all the great tropes and such, but King’s trick of making kids forget as they grow gets tiresome for some reason. For my Money King IS The Shining, but gets points for The Dead Zone and some of the better short stories (this from someone who idolized him as a kid, but grew past it)
“Great” is subjective. The physical shape of the Earth is objective. Youse guys are being pedants, here.
“Great” is subjective. The physical shape of the Earth is objective. Youse guys are being pedants, here.
I’ve only found King recently (other than reading “The Langoliers” when I was nine and having nightmares for weeks). Just finished reading Gerald’s Game; can’t help but wonder why more people don’t talk about that one and Dolores Claiborne.
The Shining is pretty terrific, too, though.
Two more great genre works: Dawn by Octavia Butler (her short story “Bloodchild” would get a nod from me too) and Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban. Neither book is talked about enough. Both are frigging fantastic.
I’ve only found King recently (other than reading “The Langoliers” when I was nine and having nightmares for weeks). Just finished reading Gerald’s Game; can’t help but wonder why more people don’t talk about that one and Dolores Claiborne.
The Shining is pretty terrific, too, though.
Two more great genre works: Dawn by Octavia Butler (her short story “Bloodchild” would get a nod from me too) and Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban. Neither book is talked about enough. Both are frigging fantastic.
Riddley Walker is a big yes.
More Genre:
Anything by Jim Thompson, especially The Killer Inside Me, Pop. 1280, The Getaway and The Grifters.
How about Chandler or Hammet?
Riddley Walker is a big yes.
More Genre:
Anything by Jim Thompson, especially The Killer Inside Me, Pop. 1280, The Getaway and The Grifters.
How about Chandler or Hammet?
Phoebe
Not pedantic at all. You said opinions couldn’t be wrong, not that opinions about subjective things couldn’t be wrong. I just stated the obvious. I also love Vonnegut, by the way. I can find no flaws in his novels (except Timequake, which I felt failed, but only by a little)
Phoebe
Not pedantic at all. You said opinions couldn’t be wrong, not that opinions about subjective things couldn’t be wrong. I just stated the obvious. I also love Vonnegut, by the way. I can find no flaws in his novels (except Timequake, which I felt failed, but only by a little)
I’m just getting tired, okie?
I’m just getting tired, okie?
Phoebe above (I hate that replies only go so deep) – I wasn’t picking a fight there, but just playing around.
Phoebe above (I hate that replies only go so deep) – I wasn’t picking a fight there, but just playing around.
No worries; it’s cool. :)
No worries; it’s cool. :)
I truly do not believe philosophically that aesthetic judgments are merely subjective, but that is probably a whole nother can of worms.
I truly do not believe philosophically that aesthetic judgments are merely subjective, but that is probably a whole nother can of worms.
Lincoln
I would love to discuss the possibility that aesthetic judgments are not subjective. As a person who fell just short of a degree in philosophy, I find this assertion fascinating at the very least. Please, argue this (I am genuinely interested in your justification for this belief).
Lincoln
I would love to discuss the possibility that aesthetic judgments are not subjective. As a person who fell just short of a degree in philosophy, I find this assertion fascinating at the very least. Please, argue this (I am genuinely interested in your justification for this belief).
Hmm, I better go brush up on my Hume then. I’ve got a deadline for something tonight, but let me just say I’m saying I don’t think aesthetic judgments are never subjective but just that they are not only or always subjective. Of course, subjective and objective have a bunch of different meanings here. The experience of viewing art is certainly always felt subjectively. But I don’t think it is all merely relativist.
Hmm, I better go brush up on my Hume then. I’ve got a deadline for something tonight, but let me just say I’m saying I don’t think aesthetic judgments are never subjective but just that they are not only or always subjective. Of course, subjective and objective have a bunch of different meanings here. The experience of viewing art is certainly always felt subjectively. But I don’t think it is all merely relativist.
“Images” would have been more effective. As Zip understands, they are the same thing.
“Images” would have been more effective. As Zip understands, they are the same thing.
Zip liked “The Stand”. It was not perfect.
Zip liked “The Stand”. It was not perfect.
Manning!
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
Manning!
ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP ZIP
How bout stories, Zip? Can we say that fiction tells stories?!
How bout stories, Zip? Can we say that fiction tells stories?!
What is a story? Now Zip is sincerely curious.
What is a story? Now Zip is sincerely curious.
[…] Higgs’ post from the other day, “Tin House & Genre Fiction,” has broken 100 comments. One of those comments is from Tonaya Thompson, the author of the […]
I draw my own line in a story when animals can talk. Maybe that’s just me.
I draw my own line in a story when animals can talk. Maybe that’s just me.
Naw, Max Brod said the same thing to Kafka. “And now a mouse? An ape and a dog and and and whatever the fuck that burrowey little bastard was and now a mouse? The fuck is wrong with you?”
Naw, Max Brod said the same thing to Kafka. “And now a mouse? An ape and a dog and and and whatever the fuck that burrowey little bastard was and now a mouse? The fuck is wrong with you?”
Oh man the Dead Zone and The Shining killed me as a teen. I couldn’t have loved those books any more.
Oh man the Dead Zone and The Shining killed me as a teen. I couldn’t have loved those books any more.
[…] On HTMLGIANT, Christopher Higgs comments on comments made about genre fiction on the Tin House blog: Tin House & Genre Fiction. […]
yeah, wouldn’t much of this discussion essentially boil down to defining subjectivity vs objectivity within the context of aesthetics? basically, an argument against the relativistic schtick? that objectivity in and of itself actually exists? personally i think relativism, when taken as an ontological truism, is lazy and absurd. but it’s also necessary to take into account the role that ‘context’ plays in relation to knowledge and experience.
for example, the act of measurement, of quantifying physical objects and relations, serves as the foundation for objectivity in the sciences. is there such a basis for aesthetics? my answer is that there is nothing as precise and concrete as that, yet as biological entities we are hardwired for certain predispositions that affect what and how we see, and what we value, regardless of whether we are aware of it or not; and if we can extract or highlight some of those predispositions we might see that in general there is a certain range or spectrum that, depending on other factors (such as cultural, familial, personal, etc.), marks certain overlapping bandwidths, each of which express certain values, which then function as the objective criteria (within that bandwidth) for aesthetic judgments.
yeah, wouldn’t much of this discussion essentially boil down to defining subjectivity vs objectivity within the context of aesthetics? basically, an argument against the relativistic schtick? that objectivity in and of itself actually exists? personally i think relativism, when taken as an ontological truism, is lazy and absurd. but it’s also necessary to take into account the role that ‘context’ plays in relation to knowledge and experience.
for example, the act of measurement, of quantifying physical objects and relations, serves as the foundation for objectivity in the sciences. is there such a basis for aesthetics? my answer is that there is nothing as precise and concrete as that, yet as biological entities we are hardwired for certain predispositions that affect what and how we see, and what we value, regardless of whether we are aware of it or not; and if we can extract or highlight some of those predispositions we might see that in general there is a certain range or spectrum that, depending on other factors (such as cultural, familial, personal, etc.), marks certain overlapping bandwidths, each of which express certain values, which then function as the objective criteria (within that bandwidth) for aesthetic judgments.
Okay, this answer makes me like you a lot. I assume that you’ve read Ayer, yes?
So Pynchon and Orwell are out, then?
Okay, this answer makes me like you a lot. I assume that you’ve read Ayer, yes?
So Pynchon and Orwell are out, then?
your liking me is very likeable. ayer? no. did he write ‘language, truth and (something?)’ wasn’t he a logical positivist? why do you bring him up? i suppose i might point to ken wilber’s integral theory, and levels and lines of consciousness, as the influence most fore in my mind while writing the above. but of course there’s heidegger (yay) and wittgenstein (who i haven’t actually read), and so on.
your liking me is very likeable. ayer? no. did he write ‘language, truth and (something?)’ wasn’t he a logical positivist? why do you bring him up? i suppose i might point to ken wilber’s integral theory, and levels and lines of consciousness, as the influence most fore in my mind while writing the above. but of course there’s heidegger (yay) and wittgenstein (who i haven’t actually read), and so on.
I think it’s interesting that the same people who are staunchly defending male-dominated genres like sci fi and westerns will happily throw romance as a genre “under the bus.” surely there are well-written books that fit into that category too? How about Jane Austen?
I think it’s interesting that the same people who are staunchly defending male-dominated genres like sci fi and westerns will happily throw romance as a genre “under the bus.” surely there are well-written books that fit into that category too? How about Jane Austen?
Loved the Dead Zone. Read the unabridged Stand. Liked Cell, read that in 2007. Dark Tower books. Salem’s Lot of course.
Loved the Dead Zone. Read the unabridged Stand. Liked Cell, read that in 2007. Dark Tower books. Salem’s Lot of course.
Probably because romance maintains its tradition of publishing mostly trash, because people still buy it.
Probably because romance maintains its tradition of publishing mostly trash, because people still buy it.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/46693
Science-Fiction Novel Posits Future Where Characters Are Hastily Sketched
OREGON CITY, OR—Science-fiction author Morgan Richards announced Monday completion of his long-awaited novel, Zeppelins Of Phobos. The swashbuckling tale of the battle for control of the solar system depicts a terrifying future filled with virtually indistinguishable characters who only communicate through stilted and shallow dialogue. “I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of the two-dimensional, almost caricatured human race spreading to nearby planets,” said Richards in the April/May issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction. “I wanted to capture the sense of adventure, lust, and peril that these characters would feel, along with their utter lack of social context or emotional complexity.” Richards said the very nature of his characters demanded that they live in the unlikely, unrealistic, and overly cinematic society he painstakingly details in the book.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/46693
Science-Fiction Novel Posits Future Where Characters Are Hastily Sketched
OREGON CITY, OR—Science-fiction author Morgan Richards announced Monday completion of his long-awaited novel, Zeppelins Of Phobos. The swashbuckling tale of the battle for control of the solar system depicts a terrifying future filled with virtually indistinguishable characters who only communicate through stilted and shallow dialogue. “I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of the two-dimensional, almost caricatured human race spreading to nearby planets,” said Richards in the April/May issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction. “I wanted to capture the sense of adventure, lust, and peril that these characters would feel, along with their utter lack of social context or emotional complexity.” Richards said the very nature of his characters demanded that they live in the unlikely, unrealistic, and overly cinematic society he painstakingly details in the book.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/47722
Scholars Discover 23 Blank Pages That May As Well Be Lost Samuel Beckett Play
PARIS—Just weeks after the centennial of the birth of pioneering minimalist playwright Samuel Beckett, archivists analyzing papers from his Paris estate uncovered a small stack of blank paper that scholars are calling “the latest example of the late Irish-born writer’s genius.”
Enlarge Image Scholars-Discover-C.jpg
O’Donoghue shows off what could easily be the play’s whimsically tragic opening scene.
The 23 blank pages, which literary experts presume is a two-act play composed sometime between 1973 and 1975, are already being heralded as one of the most ambitious works by the Nobel Prize-winning author of Waiting For Godot, and a natural progression from his earlier works, including 1969’s Breath, a 30-second play with no characters, and 1972’s Not I, in which the only illuminated part of the stage is a floating mouth.
“In what was surely a conscious decision by Mr. Beckett, the white, uniform, non-ruled pages, which symbolize the starkness and emptiness of life, were left unbound, unmarked, and untouched,” said Trinity College professor of Irish literature Fintan O’Donoghue. “And, as if to further exemplify the anonymity and facelessness of 20th-century man, they were found, of all places, between other sheets of paper.”
“I can only conclude that we have stumbled upon something quite remarkable,” O’Donoghue added.
According to literary critic Eric Matheson, who praised the work for “the bare-bones structure and bleak repetition of what can only be described as ‘nothingness,'” the play represents somewhat of a departure from the works of Beckett’s “middle period.” But, he said, it “might as well be Samuel Beckett at his finest.”
“It does feature certain classic Beckett elements, such as sparse stage directions, a mysterious quality of anonymity, a slow building of tension with no promise of relief, and an austere portrayal of the human condition,” Matheson said. “But Beckett’s traditional intimation of an unrelenting will to live, the possibility of escape from the vacuous indifference that surrounds us—that’s missing. Were that his vision, I suspect he would have used perforated paper.”
Scholars theorize that the 23-page play might have been intended to be titled Five Conversations, Entropolis, or Stop.
In addition, an 81-page document, also blank, was found, which, for all intents and purposes, could be an earlier draft of the work.
“I suspect this was a nascent stream-of-consciousness attempt,” O’Donoghue said of the blank sheets of paper, which were found scattered among Beckett’s personal effects and took a Beckett scholar four painstaking days to put into the correct order. “In his final version, Beckett used his trademark style of ‘paring down’ to really get at the core of what he was trying to not say.”
Some historians, however, contend that the play could have been the work of one of Beckett’s protégés.
“Even though the central theme and wicked sense of humor of this piece would lead one to believe that this could conceivably be a vintage Beckett play, in reality, it could just as easily have been the product of [Beckett’s close friend] Rick Cluchey,” biographer Neal Gleason said. “And if it was Beckett, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that, given his sharp wit, it was just intended as a joke. If Beckett were alive today, he might insist that it’s not even a play at all. It could be a novella, or a screenplay.”
Enthusiasts still maintain that the “nuances, subtleties, and allusions to his previous works” are all unmistakably Beckett. They also claim to have found notes and ideas for this play in the margins of Beckett’s earlier works.
There are already plans to stage the play during the intermission of an upcoming production of Waiting For Godot.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33186
My Novel Addresses Universal Themes Of Humanity And Has Fucking
By Steve Sloate
October 23, 2002 | Issue 38•39
I have finally put the finishing touches on my novel, Westbound 90, and though it took forever, I am extremely pleased with the end result. It’s a modern-day Candide, a coming-of-age tragicomedy in which the reader is taken on a great journey, both geographically and emotionally. I am confident it will be widely appreciated, as it addresses themes that speak to the human condition and, coincidentally, has loads of fucking.
In Westbound 90, I touch on two universal themes. One is the battle against the void, a war waged by countless souls. In short, I explore the duality of sentience: to be able to analyze, ponder, use tools, and create creature comforts, yet still be driven mad with the repetitiveness of life. The other theme, of course, is that everyone needs a series of explosive, mind-expanding fucks.
Although I don’t believe “The Great American Novel” can be written, Westbound 90 is a close approximation. Its 864 pages examine the broad tapestry of American people, confronting issues of race, culture, and religion. Steve, the protagonist, travels all over America, much like Huckleberry Finn, in search of an unspecified object that will either save his life or make him complete. The object is never named, so each reader may project onto it his or her own personal Holy Grail. I also hope readers will project themselves onto the character of Steve, as he indulges in amazing feats of acrobatic fuckery with women of all backgrounds and body types.
The depth and weight of my novel is likely to put some people off, but I believe there’s something in it for everyone. For example, who among us hasn’t feared losing his identity to the hive-mind of society? In Chapter 15, Steve feels trapped by his job, smothered by his family, and overwhelmed by the dictates of a consumer culture. He finally snaps and heads to the desert to find an autonomous zone where he can reconnect with his true self. I won’t give too much away, but he only begins to experience clarity after he bangs a particularly buxom Navajo chick and realizes that true peace can only be found through fucking.
I believe all readers will see something of themselves in Steve as he rails against the darkness of ignorance, chipping away at his own capacity to reason. Westbound 90 will inspire people to break free of their self-imposed holding patterns, and it will inspire them in other ways with a totally hot scene in a convent where Steve has sex with a gorgeous anarchist posing as a nun.
Is technology dehumanizing us? Are the very items that enable us to function using us as much as we use them? Steve begins to feel that way when he spends a week without a meaningful encounter with another human being. But by chapter’s end, Steve—and, by association, humanity—is redeemed by a six-way orgy of sloppy, fluid-soaked, triple-penetrating, bed-frame-splintering überfucking, proving to him once and for all that some human acts can never be replicated by machine.
I would ask you to keep an open mind while reading Westbound 90. Whether or not you agree with my conclusions, you can take something away from the book, and if nothing else, it will make you think. It may raise points you had never considered before. And it will make you see fucking in a whole new light.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel inspired to write a new short story about a woman, her dreams, and her cunnilingus.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/39205
Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner
September 23, 1997 | Issue 32•08
STORRS, CT—A major contribution to the study of 19th-century literature was made Monday with the handing-in of “Silas Marner: Paper #1” by Lori Durst, a freshman at the University of Connecticut.
Enlarge Image Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner
College freshman Lori Durst’s recent English 140 paper about Silas Marner has electrified the academic world.
According to leading experts on Silas Marner, George Eliot’s 1861 fable of cruelty and redemption in the rural English countryside, Durst’s three-page work contains a revolutionary insight into a key piece of symbolism in the novel which had previously escaped scholars.
“It’s a staggering observation, one that’s certain to alter the way we approach this text forever,” said Harold Bloom, Yale professor and author of The Western Canon. “On page two, Durst makes a connection between the golden hair of the child left on Marner’s doorstep and the misplaced heap of gold coins with which he is obsessed. While it may take decades for the full significance of this ‘chromatic objective correlative’ to ripple through academia, in my mind it has already opened the door to a rich, fertile, and heretofore virgin soil of Eliotian structural analysis.”
“Yeah, the girl’s hair is gold, and then [Silas Marner] is also looking for his missing gold,” Durst said. “So in my paper I said how that was symbolic of something.”
“Stunning,” is how Jay Kushner, 23, a teacher’s assistant in “English 140: 19th Century British Fiction,” described his pupil’s double-spaced manifesto. “As a section leader, I am lucky enough to read dozens of breathtakingly insightful two- to three-page papers from undergraduates each week. But even in the rarefied world of first-year papers, Lori’s towers above the rest.”
Durst, a native of Holmdel, NJ, who plans to major in psychology, said the idea for the essay came to her approximately three weeks ago, when her professor instructed the students to “start thinking about which book we’d want to write our first papers on.” Durst said she chose to focus on Silas Marner “because it looked pretty short.”
“My friend Lisa did hers on Middlemarch,” Durst said, “and I was like, ‘Are you crazy?’ That thing is like 10 times longer.”
Professor Thomas Perkins, who teaches English 140, was unavailable to comment on the paper. But another University of Connecticut English professor, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that Perkins and his colleagues were “stunned and somewhat embarrassed” by Durst’s 12-point, Chicago-fonted magnum opus.
“You have to understand, many of us have read Silas Marner 10, 20 times,” the professor said. “Maybe we had a vague sense that this adorable, golden-tressed waif who comes along to redeem Silas’ soul could have something to do with the gold coins that, prior to her arrival, had been the focus of Silas’ life. But we, and apparently every reader before Ms. Durst, simply dropped the ball.”
Word of Durst’s groundbreaking observation has spread quickly through academic circles, sending Victorian scholars scrambling to their annotated Norton editions of the novel and prompting at least a dozen major academic conferences to extend invitations to her.
Enlarge Image Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner jump
A key passage from Durst’s “Silas Marner: Paper #1”
Widespread publication and dissemination of “Silas Marner Paper #1,” however, will have to wait: Only one copy of the paper currently exists, and, despite the enormous demand, Durst has been unable to print more due to what she terms “some kind of total screw-up with my StyleWriter.”
Though Durst’s frequent absences from lecture and much-publicized May 1996 dismissal of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House as “unbelievably boring” had previously earned her a reputation as a rebel in the field of literary criticism, her status as a rising star of academia now seems assured.
While Durst declined to reveal the exact direction she would take her scholarship in the near future, she did express a strong, long-term commitment to the study of English literature. “I still have to take three more English classes to fulfill my minimum distribution,” Durst said, “so I guess I’ll be stuck reading books for a while.”
Indeed, Durst’s far-reaching intellect may soon become a lodestar for an entirely different academic field. French linguists around the world breathlessly await the completion of her next project, “French 110: Essaie Mandatoire,” due next Thursday.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/47722
Scholars Discover 23 Blank Pages That May As Well Be Lost Samuel Beckett Play
PARIS—Just weeks after the centennial of the birth of pioneering minimalist playwright Samuel Beckett, archivists analyzing papers from his Paris estate uncovered a small stack of blank paper that scholars are calling “the latest example of the late Irish-born writer’s genius.”
Enlarge Image Scholars-Discover-C.jpg
O’Donoghue shows off what could easily be the play’s whimsically tragic opening scene.
The 23 blank pages, which literary experts presume is a two-act play composed sometime between 1973 and 1975, are already being heralded as one of the most ambitious works by the Nobel Prize-winning author of Waiting For Godot, and a natural progression from his earlier works, including 1969’s Breath, a 30-second play with no characters, and 1972’s Not I, in which the only illuminated part of the stage is a floating mouth.
“In what was surely a conscious decision by Mr. Beckett, the white, uniform, non-ruled pages, which symbolize the starkness and emptiness of life, were left unbound, unmarked, and untouched,” said Trinity College professor of Irish literature Fintan O’Donoghue. “And, as if to further exemplify the anonymity and facelessness of 20th-century man, they were found, of all places, between other sheets of paper.”
“I can only conclude that we have stumbled upon something quite remarkable,” O’Donoghue added.
According to literary critic Eric Matheson, who praised the work for “the bare-bones structure and bleak repetition of what can only be described as ‘nothingness,'” the play represents somewhat of a departure from the works of Beckett’s “middle period.” But, he said, it “might as well be Samuel Beckett at his finest.”
“It does feature certain classic Beckett elements, such as sparse stage directions, a mysterious quality of anonymity, a slow building of tension with no promise of relief, and an austere portrayal of the human condition,” Matheson said. “But Beckett’s traditional intimation of an unrelenting will to live, the possibility of escape from the vacuous indifference that surrounds us—that’s missing. Were that his vision, I suspect he would have used perforated paper.”
Scholars theorize that the 23-page play might have been intended to be titled Five Conversations, Entropolis, or Stop.
In addition, an 81-page document, also blank, was found, which, for all intents and purposes, could be an earlier draft of the work.
“I suspect this was a nascent stream-of-consciousness attempt,” O’Donoghue said of the blank sheets of paper, which were found scattered among Beckett’s personal effects and took a Beckett scholar four painstaking days to put into the correct order. “In his final version, Beckett used his trademark style of ‘paring down’ to really get at the core of what he was trying to not say.”
Some historians, however, contend that the play could have been the work of one of Beckett’s protégés.
“Even though the central theme and wicked sense of humor of this piece would lead one to believe that this could conceivably be a vintage Beckett play, in reality, it could just as easily have been the product of [Beckett’s close friend] Rick Cluchey,” biographer Neal Gleason said. “And if it was Beckett, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that, given his sharp wit, it was just intended as a joke. If Beckett were alive today, he might insist that it’s not even a play at all. It could be a novella, or a screenplay.”
Enthusiasts still maintain that the “nuances, subtleties, and allusions to his previous works” are all unmistakably Beckett. They also claim to have found notes and ideas for this play in the margins of Beckett’s earlier works.
There are already plans to stage the play during the intermission of an upcoming production of Waiting For Godot.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33186
My Novel Addresses Universal Themes Of Humanity And Has Fucking
By Steve Sloate
October 23, 2002 | Issue 38•39
I have finally put the finishing touches on my novel, Westbound 90, and though it took forever, I am extremely pleased with the end result. It’s a modern-day Candide, a coming-of-age tragicomedy in which the reader is taken on a great journey, both geographically and emotionally. I am confident it will be widely appreciated, as it addresses themes that speak to the human condition and, coincidentally, has loads of fucking.
In Westbound 90, I touch on two universal themes. One is the battle against the void, a war waged by countless souls. In short, I explore the duality of sentience: to be able to analyze, ponder, use tools, and create creature comforts, yet still be driven mad with the repetitiveness of life. The other theme, of course, is that everyone needs a series of explosive, mind-expanding fucks.
Although I don’t believe “The Great American Novel” can be written, Westbound 90 is a close approximation. Its 864 pages examine the broad tapestry of American people, confronting issues of race, culture, and religion. Steve, the protagonist, travels all over America, much like Huckleberry Finn, in search of an unspecified object that will either save his life or make him complete. The object is never named, so each reader may project onto it his or her own personal Holy Grail. I also hope readers will project themselves onto the character of Steve, as he indulges in amazing feats of acrobatic fuckery with women of all backgrounds and body types.
The depth and weight of my novel is likely to put some people off, but I believe there’s something in it for everyone. For example, who among us hasn’t feared losing his identity to the hive-mind of society? In Chapter 15, Steve feels trapped by his job, smothered by his family, and overwhelmed by the dictates of a consumer culture. He finally snaps and heads to the desert to find an autonomous zone where he can reconnect with his true self. I won’t give too much away, but he only begins to experience clarity after he bangs a particularly buxom Navajo chick and realizes that true peace can only be found through fucking.
I believe all readers will see something of themselves in Steve as he rails against the darkness of ignorance, chipping away at his own capacity to reason. Westbound 90 will inspire people to break free of their self-imposed holding patterns, and it will inspire them in other ways with a totally hot scene in a convent where Steve has sex with a gorgeous anarchist posing as a nun.
Is technology dehumanizing us? Are the very items that enable us to function using us as much as we use them? Steve begins to feel that way when he spends a week without a meaningful encounter with another human being. But by chapter’s end, Steve—and, by association, humanity—is redeemed by a six-way orgy of sloppy, fluid-soaked, triple-penetrating, bed-frame-splintering überfucking, proving to him once and for all that some human acts can never be replicated by machine.
I would ask you to keep an open mind while reading Westbound 90. Whether or not you agree with my conclusions, you can take something away from the book, and if nothing else, it will make you think. It may raise points you had never considered before. And it will make you see fucking in a whole new light.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel inspired to write a new short story about a woman, her dreams, and her cunnilingus.
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/39205
Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner
September 23, 1997 | Issue 32•08
STORRS, CT—A major contribution to the study of 19th-century literature was made Monday with the handing-in of “Silas Marner: Paper #1” by Lori Durst, a freshman at the University of Connecticut.
Enlarge Image Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner
College freshman Lori Durst’s recent English 140 paper about Silas Marner has electrified the academic world.
According to leading experts on Silas Marner, George Eliot’s 1861 fable of cruelty and redemption in the rural English countryside, Durst’s three-page work contains a revolutionary insight into a key piece of symbolism in the novel which had previously escaped scholars.
“It’s a staggering observation, one that’s certain to alter the way we approach this text forever,” said Harold Bloom, Yale professor and author of The Western Canon. “On page two, Durst makes a connection between the golden hair of the child left on Marner’s doorstep and the misplaced heap of gold coins with which he is obsessed. While it may take decades for the full significance of this ‘chromatic objective correlative’ to ripple through academia, in my mind it has already opened the door to a rich, fertile, and heretofore virgin soil of Eliotian structural analysis.”
“Yeah, the girl’s hair is gold, and then [Silas Marner] is also looking for his missing gold,” Durst said. “So in my paper I said how that was symbolic of something.”
“Stunning,” is how Jay Kushner, 23, a teacher’s assistant in “English 140: 19th Century British Fiction,” described his pupil’s double-spaced manifesto. “As a section leader, I am lucky enough to read dozens of breathtakingly insightful two- to three-page papers from undergraduates each week. But even in the rarefied world of first-year papers, Lori’s towers above the rest.”
Durst, a native of Holmdel, NJ, who plans to major in psychology, said the idea for the essay came to her approximately three weeks ago, when her professor instructed the students to “start thinking about which book we’d want to write our first papers on.” Durst said she chose to focus on Silas Marner “because it looked pretty short.”
“My friend Lisa did hers on Middlemarch,” Durst said, “and I was like, ‘Are you crazy?’ That thing is like 10 times longer.”
Professor Thomas Perkins, who teaches English 140, was unavailable to comment on the paper. But another University of Connecticut English professor, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that Perkins and his colleagues were “stunned and somewhat embarrassed” by Durst’s 12-point, Chicago-fonted magnum opus.
“You have to understand, many of us have read Silas Marner 10, 20 times,” the professor said. “Maybe we had a vague sense that this adorable, golden-tressed waif who comes along to redeem Silas’ soul could have something to do with the gold coins that, prior to her arrival, had been the focus of Silas’ life. But we, and apparently every reader before Ms. Durst, simply dropped the ball.”
Word of Durst’s groundbreaking observation has spread quickly through academic circles, sending Victorian scholars scrambling to their annotated Norton editions of the novel and prompting at least a dozen major academic conferences to extend invitations to her.
Enlarge Image Freshman Term Paper Discovers Something Totally New About Silas Marner jump
A key passage from Durst’s “Silas Marner: Paper #1”
Widespread publication and dissemination of “Silas Marner Paper #1,” however, will have to wait: Only one copy of the paper currently exists, and, despite the enormous demand, Durst has been unable to print more due to what she terms “some kind of total screw-up with my StyleWriter.”
Though Durst’s frequent absences from lecture and much-publicized May 1996 dismissal of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House as “unbelievably boring” had previously earned her a reputation as a rebel in the field of literary criticism, her status as a rising star of academia now seems assured.
While Durst declined to reveal the exact direction she would take her scholarship in the near future, she did express a strong, long-term commitment to the study of English literature. “I still have to take three more English classes to fulfill my minimum distribution,” Durst said, “so I guess I’ll be stuck reading books for a while.”
Indeed, Durst’s far-reaching intellect may soon become a lodestar for an entirely different academic field. French linguists around the world breathlessly await the completion of her next project, “French 110: Essaie Mandatoire,” due next Thursday.
Have you seen Brian Evenson review of Wonderful World by Javier Calvo. Here’s some paragraphs from “Boschian Carnage” that I think may serve as food for thought:
We’ve grown accustomed to using categories — like “Literature” on the one hand and “Horror,” “Science Fiction,” and “Fantasy” on the other — to divvy up the world of fiction into the “serious” and the “not-so-serious.” When literary writers David Markson and Graham Greene slipped off into genre territory for a book or two, they called what they were doing “entertainments”; conversely, the renowned crime novelist Georges Simenon dubbed his ventures into psychological realism “hard novels” — as opposed, one guesses, to his “easier” detective fiction. These writers felt they could move from one world to the other only as long as they gave the reader notice that they were crossing the border.
Contemporary authors are much less interested in keeping that distinction between genres clear. Authors like Kelly Link, Jonathan Lethem, Elizabeth Hand, and John Crowley — who are capable of writing well within literary and popular genres and who don’t hesitate to mix the two — make distinctions between popular and serious fiction seem increasingly meaningless. Such distinctions tell us almost nothing about the quality of individual works. Others were quicker to recognize this than the American mainstream: indeed, while American critics were dismissing hardboiled and weird fiction as mere entertainment, the French were discussing its power and artistry; while we were deriding comic books as kid stuff, the French, Belgians, and Italians were making it into an art form.
Have you seen Brian Evenson review of Wonderful World by Javier Calvo. Here’s some paragraphs from “Boschian Carnage” that I think may serve as food for thought:
We’ve grown accustomed to using categories — like “Literature” on the one hand and “Horror,” “Science Fiction,” and “Fantasy” on the other — to divvy up the world of fiction into the “serious” and the “not-so-serious.” When literary writers David Markson and Graham Greene slipped off into genre territory for a book or two, they called what they were doing “entertainments”; conversely, the renowned crime novelist Georges Simenon dubbed his ventures into psychological realism “hard novels” — as opposed, one guesses, to his “easier” detective fiction. These writers felt they could move from one world to the other only as long as they gave the reader notice that they were crossing the border.
Contemporary authors are much less interested in keeping that distinction between genres clear. Authors like Kelly Link, Jonathan Lethem, Elizabeth Hand, and John Crowley — who are capable of writing well within literary and popular genres and who don’t hesitate to mix the two — make distinctions between popular and serious fiction seem increasingly meaningless. Such distinctions tell us almost nothing about the quality of individual works. Others were quicker to recognize this than the American mainstream: indeed, while American critics were dismissing hardboiled and weird fiction as mere entertainment, the French were discussing its power and artistry; while we were deriding comic books as kid stuff, the French, Belgians, and Italians were making it into an art form.
And here’s a link to the rest of Evenson’s review:
http://www.powells.com/review/2009_08_31
And here’s a link to the rest of Evenson’s review:
http://www.powells.com/review/2009_08_31