Skip to main content

Genres That Don't Exist

Sometimes I fear my imagination might run out.  Throughout my life it has been my experience that good things tend to run out while bad things seem to exist in amazing reserves.  Imagination is a good thing.

Part of the problem, admittedly, is the ubiquity of work.  Trudging back and forth to the office each day drains a writer of energy.  At least this writer.  When I’m in the midst of a big project (as one of the six novels I’ve finished) I’m full of ideas, ready to write constantly.  When I finish, I can go months groping about for an idea that works.  Meanwhile I work.

I was glad to read Tod Davies’ The Lizard Princess because it takes place in a fantasy land of ideas.  Although I’ve termed some of my stories fantasies, the fact is I don’t really write in this genre.  I think “magical realism” might be the more appropriate way to describe my work, or “fabulism.”  Genres can be constraining.

The Lizard Princess makes no apologies for being fantasy.  The usual tropes of princesses, dragons, encounters with mythical beasts, evil queens—it’s all there.  And, of course, a voyage of transformation.  We can learn a lot from fantasy.

Writing, it seems to me, is a fantasy.  In a surfeit of joie de vivre I recently sent several stories out for publication.  The rejections have been trickling in, and I wonder if publishing itself might be a fantasy.



I talked with a much younger co-worker recently.  She writes fiction as well, but doesn’t try to publish.  I’ve been writing fiction since at least 1976, but I grew up in a town where nobody really knew a thing about publishing.  In consequence, I learned to write in genres that don’t exist.

Devoting full time to writing seems like a dream.  Living from novel to novel is, perhaps, a fantasy.  Still, a little encouragement goes a long way.  If a place existed that eschewed genre perhaps I would stand a chance.


Like most writers, I believe in fantasy.  If I could only classify myself, I might stand a chance of getting noticed.  The price is only giving up how I taught myself to write.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Maybe Okay

  A couple pieces of encouraging news, perhaps, dear struggling writers.   I had a couple short stories accepted for publication in recent weeks.   As a fellow writer recently said, “You've got to keep trying.  Somebody will like what you wrote.” That’s a bit of sunshine.   And it’s likely true.   But the stories:   “The Crossing,” about two men in a boat trying to cross the Atlantic, was accepted by JayHenge Publishing.   JayHenge is a small, but paying publisher.   I was flattered when they wanted it for their Masque & Maelström: The Reluctant Exhumation of Edgar Allan Poe anthology.   Being associated with Poe in any way feels good. The second story, “St. Spiders’ Day,” had been brewing in my mind for years—yes, this is a long game!   A friend pointed me to The Creepy podcast.   Since the story hadn’t been written, I followed their guidelines of what they wanted.   It worked. I recently heard a successful wri...

Working Through It

  The thing about being a working writer is you don’t have time.   Between working nine-to-five and trying to eat and sleep, and write, of course, the week is shot.   Weekends are spent doing the errands that you can’t do during the week. I should probably have known better than to join a local writers’ group.   Their meetings, although only once a month, are all-day affairs on a Saturday.   I generally don’t have all day Saturday to spare.   I work all week and I need groceries and the occasional Target run.   And I haven’t yet learned to go a week without eating. This is actually the third writers’ group I’ve joined.   One was not too far from home, but not terribly helpful.   They met on Saturdays, but in the morning only.   Nobody seemed interested in what I was writing, so I stopped going. The second one was about an hour away.   They also met on Saturdays.   Their big thing was having lunch together after the meeting. ...

Creative Righting

  Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world.   That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week.   That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press.   The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor.   She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher.   I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions.   I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor.   That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it?   You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify.   It’s got speculative elements to it.   ...