I recently sat on a great author panel with other fine loquacious individuals for an event around the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre that discussed our books. Moderated by Jason Denzel, the panel included Val Neil, Lisa M. Randolph, and Parker Peevyhouse. All wonderful and exciting people with books that truly are magnificent!
And, then there was me.
To say I felt out of place is a huge understatement. Not from a not having anything to discuss perspective. For those who know me, I am quite the conversationalist.
I felt out of my safe zone because my book, Pandemic-19, is a suspense and psychological thriller.
At least, I thought it was part of that genre.
After the event, which went extremely well with great discussions and a Q&A that really got into the weeds of writing and made it such a fun occasion, I told one of my longest and dearest friends, who just so happened to extend the invite to participate, how I felt. I didn’t feel my book belonged in the company of Sci-Fi and Fantasy because my while my book is fiction, there is a reality to it that keeps it grounded. What transpires could actually happen and the events so plausible.
I then got a response I never anticipated.
My honest to a core friend told me she felt my book did belong, that the plot and story had elements of science fiction in it and also fantasy.
I was blown away.
I never in my wildest dreams realized what she was telling me. And, it hit home. She was right in so many ways. How I missed it was beyond my comprehension at the time.
Our conversation ruminated in my mind. Festered like an open wound. Even went rancid and turned into a foul-smelling drink that would make you wretch.
Why are we beholden to one genre or siloed inside a particular box or boxes?
Why can’t we simply have a book that speaks to whomever and without residing within the confines of some arbitrary sphere?
That thought stuck in my brain and got me to think long and hard about what I am about to divulge to all of you, my dear friends.
I want to write.
Pure and as simple as that.
The story and plot, as I have said many times before, is what drives my words forward. What transpires in the end is a book. I have something to tell, and I sit down and put forth something that I hope people find entertaining and come away with a sense that I offered them a break and rest from the doldrums of life.
I don’t set out with a genre in mind.
I am forced to do that when it comes time to publish and go about the marketing and advertising component because everyone wants you to put your work inside of some box. Tie it up with a nice little bow and target to some imaginary category that makes it easier to catalog and search per an algorithm.
Silly.
It got me to thinking about the business of writing a book and its history.
That’s when the light bulb and the dinger went off.
Did the writers of yonder worry about what genre their book got pigeon-holed into and worry about whether someone cared about that? When Mary Shelley sat and wrote, was she worried about being a science fiction book, or did she just simply write the story in her head? Was Jules Verne thinking what genre his books fell into, or did the words just come forth and books were born?
You could argue that those masterpieces were written well over one hundred plus and some serious change years ago. Writing was not a profession many chose to undertake, so the ocean was an expanse for the few. Just getting your hands on a story to read was a treat!
Really, no matter what it entailed.
Skip ahead a few decades. I honestly do not know the answer to this, but I think I can rightly surmise a wild guess.
John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway probably did not fret about what genre their novels fell into and only worried about actually finishing their manuscripts.
I say that with about ninety-five percent certainty on my part.
Genres to me are guides. Categories to place a book to let a reader know initially where it falls within what I believe should be two boxes.
Fiction and non-fiction.
From there, as long as you know whether the story is based on something real or is a total figment of the author’s imagination, I think, in my lowly humble opinion, that the description on the back cover is what tells a reader where in the cosmos the book falls.
Placing it then within the confining realm of a category with so many sub areas and crossovers to me makes it harder to explain what a book is about. It becomes pigeon-holed into a space where it may not actually belong, all to make things easier for someone that in the grander schemes of life, complicates matters on a nuclear scale.
Say what now?
Think about it my friends. If you have taken up a genre of books that you like and only search or read books that are placed within that category, do you venture out of the comfort zone? What if there is a book that for some galactic reason is so enticing and would knock your socks off as a read, is misconstrued as not fitting nicely into the four walls and you miss it?
What then?
You would totally miss out on a topic or story that you would love because it aligns with a like of yours, but it sits out in the cold wind. A travesty of the most diabolical dimensions.
While genres once were helpful to find certain topics relevant to your reading likes, they have morphed and expanded into so many hundreds of different compartments. While there are the traditional main headings, the sub-categories go on for days. You even find multiple levels that go on like a dark and dank dungeon in the depths of a castle that are layers deep. It can be confusing trying to find what you want as a reader.
Imagine as a writer after the fact, trying to figure out where your book falls.
It is one of those unfortunate thoughts that no one should worry about when all they want to do is entertain.
Now, my view is simplistic for sure. I know the merits of why genres help and assist with the cataloging of novels and books. Trust me, it has come in handy to a narrow and specific degree.
That said, I firmly hold to my being that they are also detrimental.
Wow, you went there writer guy!
I did. As I have documented above, having to been with the structured space of a small and windowless room, creates a sense of confinement. A book gets locked inside and there is no key. It stays there, with the faint hope that people can find it. If they do, then their personal locksmith abilities let it out to see the sun and breathe fresh air.
If not, then only those who know the address and the particulars on how to jimmy the handle are privy to the words that rest on the pages.
It’s sad.
A book should be a book. A story be a story. A writer takes the idea and puts the painting together on the canvas. Like a bird being released to the wild, you hold it in your gentle hands, and give a swift upward motion to give some lift and the bird flies to freedom.
In the open air and free.
To me, that is what writing is all about. If I have to worry about how my book is categorized or labeled, then as an author I am missing being focused. I am worrying about things instead of just telling my tale. I should be able to complete the last page and let it go into the ethos for anyone to find and enjoy, cherish as something that warmed their heart, made them think, or changed their perception.
Just my distorted view.
In today’s age of technology, search engines and algorithms take key words and make it easier to find what you might be looking for in a good read. They also then place books in those little boxes, helped by publishers and printers alike, and maybe even the bookstore clerk who fills the shelves. If a book has a lot of different aspects to it, then that shelf placement really limits it being found by that perusing person who stays glued to one section.
About the only place it helps is for online sales, and even then, there is still a label attached.
So what do we do?
I wish I had a solid answer. A formula that worked. Alas, I do not. I am as perplexed and dumbfounded today as I was when I was smacked with the thought in my head.
All I can venture to say is this. My books will fall into genres whether I like it or not. They will be categorized by someone who hasn’t read them. Dumped into a pit by an AI with no emotion or understanding of the contents that line the pages. Put into a box that they may or may not belong.
All I can do for you, my loyal and dear friends, is humbly sit here at my computer and keep writing for you and everyone. Tell my stories as they come, and let them fall where they may. Not let myself become locked in a battle of wonder on where they go. Keep my focus on the work and not the street where they end up. Fight the good fight and let my words and plots speak for themselves.
And, never worry about a label.
Jason McDonald 