“I think a lot about the fact that, for most of the history of literature that we know about, most literature was fantasy. Up through Shakespeare, it was not looked askance upon to have witches and magic and spirits in your stuff. The more time I spend reading and writing fantasy, the more perverse it seems to me that fiction has to pretend to act like the real world and obey the laws of thermodynamics.”
- Forget why fantasy matters. Why does realism matter? from io9
What makes YA different from middle-grade fiction—or, for that matter, adult stuff? It’s not just in the age of the character—there’s difference between a coming-of-age novel that’s written for an adult audience and YA novel. YA is about being a teenager, not about looking back on the experience. YA is about the moments when teens decide what kind of adults they’re going to become.
- from Albert Whitman: Advice to Writers: What We’re Looking for at AW Teen
… first, with a simple increase in reading comprehension, adult genre fiction will be of considerable appeal owing to the accessibility of the prose and story lines. Second, irrespective of age, human beings have an innate attraction to the dramatization of issues around life’s central mysteries: its genesis and termination. Put another way, not only will your kids survive an exposure to violence and sexuality in books, but it is crucial to their moral development.
- Why teens should read adult fiction from Salon
And now for a movie trailer, because I can’t wait to see this. I love Diablo Cody’s subversive themes and young adult characters, even when they no longer qualify by age as ‘young’.
Before I started writing I thought the word ‘genre’ sounded a bit wanky, and now I use it all the time, even when talking about music and I’ve no doubt there are friends who consider me a bit wanky for saying it, especially as it sounds ‘a bit French’.
From Google Dictionary:
Since ‘genre’ is such a useful term, once you start making use of it you wonder how you ever got on in the world without it.
By using the word ‘category’, probably. Or ‘type’.
‘Genre’ is such a nice word to say that it’s easy to overuse it, and sometimes ‘genre’ is used where ‘category’ would be a more accurate choice.
Example:
I think it’s a lack of exposure to contemporary YA lit that makes adults refer to it as a “genre.” Much of the time when people say “the YA lit genre,” what they really mean iscategory rather than genre, and that’s fine. However, I recently attended a talk by an author who had been writing adult genre fiction and was working on her first YA novel, and she kept referring to the characteristics of the YA genre, as if all YA books were somehow fundamentally the same.
The same would apply to short stories. Short story is not a genre; it’s a length.
Likewise, women’s fiction is not a genre; it’s a marketing term.
And if YA is a category rather than a genre, then it follows that there’s no such thing as ‘the genre of children’s literature’. That, too, would be a ‘category’.
Right now I can picture my dad watching the Emmys & muttering “reality shouldn’t even be a category” & my mom telling him to shut up.
- @sarahlapolla
Related Link: Genre Theory — continued, from Michael Rosen.
In full disclosure, it’s possible I’m the least romantic person you know.
This month I’m reading a romance novel for the first time in ages. I blame book club. But I happen to know there are other members of our book club who enjoy reading the romance genre, and even if no one admits to it, romance is the best selling genre of the lot.
So I’d better formulate some proper reasons for my aversion to it. Otherwise I might be mistaken for someone who joins book clubs just to have a good rant, with a captive audience (and cake).
1. Liberal splatterings of adjectives. If there’s any genre that’s soft on adjectives it’s romance. I find myself reading with an imaginary red pen in hand. Once you notice them, you can’t stop noticing. (Sorry.)
2. Adverbs, ditto, and in romance it’s okay to make use of adverbs in dialogue tags as well.
3. This often leads to sloppy dialogue. If dialogue were apt and well-chosen, adverbs in dialogue tags would be unnecessary.
4. Chiseled features. (etc.) The authors of A Billion Wicked Thoughts analyzed the text of more than ten thousand romance novels published from 1983 to 2008 to determine the most common descriptions of the hero’s physical appearance. (Scroll down to A Tall Man With A Nice Tush and you won’t be the least bit surprised.)
5. Grey/blue/brown eyes that always have to ‘match’ something, like a tie or a suit or the sky. I’m sure people don’t go around matching things up with their eyes. Not men, at least. (Not the men I know.)
6. Stock standard beauty in the leading man and lady. I can’t complain too much about the unoriginal character sketches which are most often used to introduce a protagonist in romance because the rules of the genre are only as narrow as the well-known Western Beauty Ideals. The leading man must be attractive to female readers. The female must also be fuckable, in a female news anchor kind of generic way, but like all well-socialised women living in real life Western culture, she must have something wrong with her, but nothing that would put a potential suitor off. (Kinky hair or lanky legs are okay, but facial warts and alopecia are a no-no.) Little wonder all the men are even featured, chiselled, tall and muscular. And as for the women? There is some variation in hair and eye colour. That’s about it.
7. Heteronormative, matrimonial ideals, which are fine for some people, but which are somewhat outdated. There’s still the idea that success equals moving in together with the intent of spending the rest of one’s days together, having children, til death do them part. Whenever I get to the end of a romance novel I think, “Well, that ain’t gunna last.” (I thunk it of Pride and Prejudice, so there you go. I’m stuffed.)
8. The author’s job is to keep the female and male lead apart for as long as possible. In these times of premarital sex and mobile phones, it’s harder and harder to contrive a reason why the two of them shouldn’t just get together from the off. So instead you’re fed improbable reasons for keeping the hero and heroine apart, such as: He likes her but She thinks they’re just friends, or She starts off hating Him because She thinks he’s arrogant, but then she learns the Real Him. Conflict, like any other plot device, can feel like a contrivance, and in the romance genre, that’s what it most often feels like to this reader.
9. The actual sex scenes can feel cringe-worthy or wrong, because everyone’s sexual response is different, and no one author is going to appeal to each and every reader. Nor should they even try to. My point is, it’s hard to find the exact thing that does it for you. That might mean sticking to one author. You better hope they’re prolific. The problem with sticking to one author is that genre authors tend to get a bit same-same after ten novels, plot-wise. As a side note, if you’re reading romance for the steamy sections, why not just read erotica? Romance strikes me as erotica for people who wouldn’t be seen dead reading it.
10. Romance authors tend to propagate sexual ideas I don’t agree with. I don’t think it really does much for women’s sexual liberation. For instance, the woman still works hard to look good for the man, and it’s still the man who does most of the admiring. The woman still exists for the man’s pleasure. Perhaps women like romance so much because it’s the one opportunity women get to gaze at themselves in the way a man enjoys in reality. Otherwise, why would Judy Nunn write this scene from the male point of view?
“You’ve always looked beautiful in red.”
In romance we’re fed this idea that the way a woman looks to a man is the most important thing in the sex act. This is always the way in novels, but in real life, how someone looks has very little to do with sexual satisfaction. As Naomi Wolf writes in The Beauty Myth, once two people are physically close, touch and smell become more important. If this weren’t true, ugly people would’ve died out.
The instant he said it, he saw the fear and insecurity vanish.
This is a strong female lead in many ways, but her sexual response still depends on the approval of a man. You could argue that it works both ways. A woman can crush a man by laughing at him. But do you see men in romance worried about that kind of thing? Like hell you do. Men wouldn’t read about it anyway. Men don’t have their own neuroses shoved down their throats and reinforced by escapist fiction in quite the same way as women do.
And as she slowly walked towards him he was reminded of that day in the park. This was a fantasy men only dreamed of.
Notice that this is written in close(ish) third person and that the reader is in the man’s head, admiring the woman and indulging in his fantasy, not in hers. The implication is that she is aroused because he is aroused. The female protagonist’s own fantasy isn’t mentioned, and I wonder if that would even be accepted by the target audience of this particular novel. I’m sure there are romance novels in which the woman owns her own fantasy, without reliance upon the gaze of a man, but I don’t happen to have read it.
The actual sex bit is judiciously skipped (thank christ).
He’d stayed the night, and they’d made love again the following morning, an easier, gentler experience than the first time, when he’d worried that he may have hurt her.
“Nonsense,” she’d said briskly. “It’s called losing one’s virginity, and it’s meant to be painful.” Although this is what the protagonist believes, and not necessarily what the author believes, this idea is never challenged. I’m not convinced sex is ever meant to be painful, not even the first time, since true arousal has the effect of dulling pain.
- Judy Nunn, from Maralinga
Slightly related link, from someone who does like romance: Believable Romance, and the problem with love at first sight; Life Is Not A Rom-Com – Finding a partner in the real world.
I’m so going to play this: Thrust & Plunge: The Lusty Game You Can Play with Romance Novels from Studies In Crap.
Also, I think this article might hit the nail on the head as to why I seem to not enjoy romance, because I do feel like a traitor to my gender by not liking much of it. As noted in the article, Hate the book, not the genre. I would also like to point out that I understand there’s a difference between romance and erotica.
It’s also possible that I’ve been steeping myself too deeply in YA romance which, as explicated adeptly in this article: YA, Romance And Rape Culture, perpetuates some ideas that I hate with a passion.
Here’s my problem with mystery/detective novels.
So, you’ve authored a mystery. You’ve created a narrator to tell me your story, one little bit at a time. You knew, when you started editing this book, how it was going to end. You know whodunnit. So spit it out already!
So you see, I’m not a big fan of mystery novels. I’m sure the best examples of the genre are truly excellent. If I could only let go of my Type-A Personality, sit back and enjoy the ride. Instead, I get fed up with the drip-feeding.
(I’m not the only one who overthinks this issue.)
As a reader I have little time for red-herrings, and I can even reinterpret foreshadowing as telegraphing once I’ve reached the end of the story. I don’t enjoy feeling like a pawn. (Yes, we’re all pawns. I just don’t like feeling like one.)
All this moaning is neither here nor there, because I’m not a part of the mystery/detective literary world. But is there a take-home message for writers of other genres? Should this bizarre response teach me something else, as a some-time writer of short stories?
I think so. Because there are a number of ways in which writers can unwittingly ‘hold out’ on readers. I’m as guilty as the next hack.
(spoofing now)
Chapter One
He heard his heart pound in his chest. Or so he thought. Perhaps this wasn’t his own heart after all. Perhaps he heard footsteps, approaching down the shingle path as he lurked in the shadows of the eaves. Yes. He was sure now. He could definitely hear footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
Each instance of ‘he’ could have been an opportunity for the author to GO AHEAD AND TELL US the protagonist’s name. But for some reason the author refuses to offer a name, even though this is third-person narrative – possibly omniscient, though we can’t yet tell. Name is withheld even though a third-person narrator has FULL ACCESS to all names. There seems no good reason why the author shouldn’t just go ahead and tell us the character’s name is Bob, and here’s Bob, lurking in the shadows. Hi Bob. Let’s get on with the story.
Why do so many authors do this? To create suspense, I guess. But there’s good suspense and bad suspense.
When meeting in real life – across cultures – a few nuggets of information are exchanged before progressing further with a conversation. One of these things is the other person’s name*. Even when we know nothing else about a person, we feel more at ease just knowing names. That’s why check-out chicks are made to wear name-badges (even if the name is obviously faked. I know. I used to be a check-out chick and we often swapped badges for fun.)
Have you ever met a new person at a social gathering, been introduced, instantly forgotten their name then found yourself unexpectedly caught up in deep conversation for the rest of the night? After a while it dawns on you: You know all sorts of things about this lovely new acquaintance – their job, where they live, where they went to school, their favourite sandwich spread. If only you could remember their name. Eventually, one of you must own up to the uncomfortable: ‘Er, sorry. I actually missed your name…’ It’s been bugging you, hasn’t it?
Fiction is the same. Many readers want to know the name of a character before knowing much more. The name serves as a hanger for all other information. And when an author refuses to let on, it feels like holding-out.
I am very guilty of this and I explain why in this post.
As my chef-trained friend once mused, ‘People are scared of chicken.’ This was after I opened the fridge, expressing doubt at last night’s leftovers. The public are imbued with so many horror stories of food poisoning – especially here in Australia, and especially over the summer BBQ season – that it’s easy to shun all shreds of leftover chicken no matter how promptly you transferred it to the fridge after yesterday’s do.
I took this pic at the Canberra Chicken Olympics
Same goes for writers and backstory, I think. We’re constantly warned off the dreaded info-dump. The first big lesson I learned from my writing group was Drip-feed your backstory. My first attempt at a novel (I’ve since attempted two more and finished none of them) had far too much backstory in it, and chapter two was entirely backstory. Classic mistake.
After my lightbulb moment, I couldn’t believe I’d been so naive.
Step Two of the learning curve: Avoid backstory altogether.
This is equally misguided. In an attempt to create something fast-paced and attention grabbing, I ended up writing a good number of stories which failed to tell readers anything about my characters, aside from what readers really had to know during that small amount of time between the beginning and end of the story. I may have achieved something poetic and minimalist at times. But those stories were not the least bit satisfying for most readers.
I still struggle to know how much backstory to include, and what constitutes ‘enough’. The line is so fine and I’m not a good judge of it in my own stories – I’m far better when looking at someone else’s draft. (Another big reason to join a writers’ group.)
In sum: Not all leftover chicken will kill you. Don’t be afraid of it just because of the horror stories. Learn the food-handling rules and you’ll be fine. Same goes with writing and backstory. Omission of interesting backstory can feel like holding-out on the reader, even if you end up slowing the pacing down for a scene or two.
Posted in Uncategorized, Writing Wednesday
Tagged backstory, craft, foreshadowing, genre, literary, telegraphing, writing, writing groups
“The great thing’s to get [your so-called magnum opus] on to paper.”
“I got a great title.”
“Good.”
“You want me to tell you?”
“If you like.”
He dropped his jaw and gaped at me. “You must be joking mate. You think I’d give away my title. You might use it! That title’s worth money!”
“Then you should hang onto it.”
“A title,” he said with great feeling, “can make or break a book.”
Think of Ed McBain! Killer’s Pay-Off! Think of Shark City! Or Eden’s Burning! Think of The Day of the Dog! Great titles. The cash value of his title he estimated at 50,000 US dollars. With a title like that, you could make a great movie. Even without the book!
“Even without the story?” I suggested.
“Could do,” he nodded.
- from The Songlines, by Bruce Chatwin (p121)
I hear authors aren’t always in charge of their own book titles anyway. That’s partly why I like that scene so much!
Anyway, I think I found a use for Wordle. Sort of.
from someone’s top 100
But actually I could’ve told you that Heart, Rose, Heaven and Love feature heavily in the titles of Romance novels.
according to someone’s top 100
I was surprised that ‘man’ featured so heavily in science fiction titles. But really, should I be?
Fantasy titles may include more original words, and are more likely to be part of a ‘series’ or ‘chronicle’. Also if you use the word ‘Dark’ in your title, it’s going to sound like fantasy. That’s interesting, because someone in my writing group is trying to get her women’s fiction published. Her title includes the word ‘dark’ and I told her last year that when I started reading, I wasn’t expecting women’s fiction; I had been expecting fantasy. I’ve been trained, see. (She knows I hate her title. I’ve told her several times.)
according to this website
No surprises there, then.
If this fun little procrastination exercise taught me anything, it’s that You can tell a genre from the title. Probably.
The two most depressing words in the English language are “literary fiction”.
- David Hare
*
What’s called “literary” fiction has no special interest group. It simply includes too many things. Elizabeth Gilbert, Ben Marcus, and Jonathan Franzen are all literary writers. For a literary novel to succeed, it has to create its own market—one that never existed before it hit the shelves.
Literary writing (or, if you prefer, imaginitive writing) has certain advantages of its own, none of them weakened one bit by technology. It can often be funnier than other kinds of prose. It can deal more humanly with sex. It can say shameful things about family life—not by treating them as scandals but, on the contrary, by showing that they’re normal.
- Loren Stein, full article here.
*
Literary fiction is a term that has come into common usage since around 1960, principally to distinguish serious fiction (that is, work with claims to literary merit) from the many types of genre fiction and popular fiction (i.e., paraliterature). In broad terms, literary fiction focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character, the plot may or may not be important. Mainstream commercial fiction focuses more onnarrative and plot.
*
Have you noticed an implied snobbery that goes along with the phrase ‘literary fiction’? If you hang around writing groups, you may have noticed this reluctance – the reluctance of some writers to label their own work ‘literary’. These writers don’t know what they should call it, but some refuse to even acknowledge that there is such a thing.
Is it because ‘literary’ has connotations of unique, original, outstanding, big-prize-garnering? Nobody wants to be held to these standards. If this is your definition of literary no wonder you shy away from owning it.
Genre fiction almost certainly has connotations of formulaic, light and appeals-to-masses. There are just as many writing group regulars who refuse to slot their work into a genre, preferring to pretend that their work is not constrained by the (surprisingly tight!) restraints of word-length and structure that their genre demands.
I’ve been in discussions with people who refuse to acknowledge that there is any such thing as literary fiction. Since it’s hard to define, they don’t want to go there. Just because something is hard to define, or lengthy, or requires numerous examples, doesn’t mean it can’t be defined.
But literary fiction is a thing; it’s a legitimate publishing thing. When agents and editors talk about literary fiction, their peers know exactly what sort of work they are talking about, at least in the trade sense of the term. Here’s a definition from a literary agent.
I wish someone would sweep the snobby connotations of ‘literary’ away so we can get on with the real task, which is writing, not marketing.
