Picking sides in the fiction wars

(Photo credit: Blue Train Books)

Last night I attended a really interesting Society of Editors dinner meeting. I could even say it was the most interesting Society of Editors meeting I’ve ever attended, which wouldn’t be a lie, but would be slightly misleading. It was also the first I’ve ever attended.

Either way, it was an interesting night – theoretically all about the writer and editor coexisting and how to work as an editor when all you want to do is write. I say theoretically, because to my mind it turned into a discussion about how terrible genre fiction is and how wonderful it is to write true literary fiction that perhaps nobody will read. Perhaps I’ve oversimplified but really, that was what it felt like.

At one point, genre writers were described as writing with their heads while literary fiction writers wrote with their hearts, which makes genre writers sound quite heartless and slightly manipulative really. Perhaps there is a formula and less of an impetus to confuse readers and push boundaries – nothing wrong with that at all – but I bristled at the idea that the stories I want to tell come only from my head.

I have nothing against either side – I used to read more genre fiction than literary fiction but that balance has changed a bit more as my reading preferences have matured – but I find the snobbery so frustrating. Why is there a line? Why are the Jonathan Franzens of the world so elitist about their ‘art’ when it’s just a different sort of art to genre? By their definition, Stephen King would be a heartless, money-grabbing genre writer, without a soul, sitting in his study laughing gleefully over a formula while they sit sobbing in their garrets making ‘art’. I really hate this divide.  Yes, the mass market is driven more and more by sales and marketing than by real innovation and there are people out there churning out books to a formula but hey, they’re still writing and still getting that buzz from publication. The same buzz those literary fiction writers get.  There’s no difference except that literary fiction writer is eligible for awards and is allowed to feel superior.

And then there was even some derision for those ‘lit fic’ writers – the ones who are writing literary fiction that conforms to a style, that doesn’t push boundaries and make readers scratch their heads. They’re apparently betraying their true literary fiction roots and should be snorted at.

Now, there is a chance that I read this all wrong but I stand up proudly as a genre writer and proclaim loudly – I am not ashamed! I will read widely but write what my head AND my heart tells me. Perhaps I don’t push boundaries but you know what? That’s okay. There’s an audience out there for my ‘safe’ work and I’ll write for them and for myself.

 

Related articles

• Why literary fiction is a genre by Lynne Cantwell (riteshkala.wordpress.com)
• The Blurry Monster of Literary Fiction & Literary Horror (alovelylittlewritersnotebook.wordpress.com)

Giving myself permission again

Getting started is hard people. Seriously. Having nothing to force me to write – no classes, no assignments – means that the act of actually writing is really,  really hard.

I stopped writing my Morning Pages a while back. In fact, I stopped reading The Artist’s Way altogether because I felt like a total fraud. Who am I to call myself a writer at all? I have ideas and dreams and characters in my head but they aren’t going anywhere. The voice inside tells me to grow up, be responsible, get more freelancing project managing work and move on. Some people are creative and my voice tells me that I’m not one of them. And sadly, I give that voice more credit than my dreams, more power than it deserves.

I’m stuck in the mud between wanting to write and actually doing it. I have a germ of a character in my head. A sweet mother and housewife with a wish to have a secret. She’s quiet but persistent and I find myself thinking of her at odd moments – a bit of “what would she think of that?” or “what would she do if she were in that situation?”

And I love that.

So. Again, I find myself toying with the idea of Morning Pages with a twist. This time, I want to do my Morning Pages AND commit to 15 minutes of writing – actual fiction writing about this character – a day. Fifteen minutes is doable I think. My Morning Pages may be 3 pages or may be less. I just need to write. I need to give myself permission to be a writer.

So what if it’s crap? So what if nobody ever reads it?

I’ll still be a writer