Defensive Lines

There’s been a lot of “defending the genre” talk whirling aroud the blogosphere of late. I was reading Jill Shalvis’s blog the other day and came across a post about the negative reaction of a bunch of women at a garage sale when Jill informed them that she wrote romances.

1. Jill, baby, women at a garage sale? Please, chil’. Who were they trying to outclass in that setting?
2. ::Insert usual “defense of genre” argument here.::

It’s so wearying, isn’t it? I admit to skipping over the “defense of genre” articles in the RWR every month, if only because I’m so damn tired of the topic. Tired of fighting. “Romances make up fifty-one percent of all paperback book sales.” “What, don’t you like the idea of love and commitment between two people who care about each other enough to overcome obstacles?” “What’s wrong with S-E-X?” “No I don’t write trashy novels. I write good, uplifting novels about the triumph of the human spirit.” “Sonnets have a formula, too. And mysteries. Always a crime, always solved.” Blah blah blah blah blah. It’s the same thing with chick lit. “No, my books aren’t about designer shoes. They are about women discovering themselves and their place in the world.” “No, I don’t consider my books insubstantial and fluffy, thanks for asking.” “No my books aren’t stupid and shallow.” Etc. ad nauseum. (And, I’ve noticed a rising trend in genre writers deriding literary fiction as being all “boring” with “unhappy endings.” I find that just as tiresome, prejudiced, and inappropriate.)

Ever see Last Action Hero? I find that movie very entertaining. There’s a scene in it in which Arnold’s character is talking to his ex-wife, and pulls out a box full of tapes with labels like “I wasn’t there.” “I’m so sorry.” “Ask your mother.” etc., sticks one in a tape player and lets it play for his wife who is blathering on on the other end of the phone. I’ve considered taping my genre defenses and just pressing play for some of these yahoos (from Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift: a race of brutish boors). I usually go for the round-eyed “Why, whatever can you mean?” Followed up by “What do you read?” At one party, I was told by a snootish guest, “Oh, I don’t read romance. It’s all trash.” “Oh, what do you read?” Get this: her favorite writer was Nora Roberts, and boy was she shocked when I said Roberts was a devoted member of RWA. She was under the mistaken impression it was only romance if it had Fabio on the cover, and of course, had never looked beyond said cover to see if the books inside were “trashy” or not. If people hand me a bad romance novel, I say, “Well, there are some pretty terrible players in the NFL. Does that mean that football players suck and we should all go watch golf or we’re not good sports fans?”

But it’s just getting tiring. One poster on Jill’s blog said that sometimes she doesn’t admit she’s a writer, because she doesn’t have the energy. Always defending, always arguing, always trying to convince people of their ignorance and prejudice. Methods of defense are different for everyone. I understand now why so many published authors deign to defend themselves in favor of laughing all the way to the bank. Harder to do before the sale though. But, we use what we’ve got in our arsenal. Sales figures, history, market share, reader loyalty, whatever we can throw at ’em. I like to point out the naysayer’s ignorance. Of late, I’ve been known to invoke the name of Random House. And, if the person is determined to be a jerk, I’m blessed with a last resort weapon, what my college friends and I used to call the Y-bomb: “Oh yes, literary fiction. I enjoy good literary fiction too, but of course, I already cut a wide swath through the Western Canon in my freshman year at Yale.”

And, in the ensuing silence, I occasionally add, “In Latin.”

Sometimes it gets more difficult, like with the backhanded compliment. On the occasion of my sale, my father, bless his heart, told me, “I always thought you were in the wrong genre. I’m glad you decided to write something that was more worthy of you.” I made the usual noises, “Dad, I want everything I write to be worthy of me, whether it’s a 250-word website review or a 400 page novel.”But what I really wanted to say was, “Dad, you don’t read romances. You hardly ever read novels. You’ve never read any of my books (upon my request). How do you know what’s worthy of me?” He’s read the partial of (Secret) Society Girl, and loves it, but I think he probably would have loved my others, as well. Because I try to write good books. Not good romances or good chick lits or good action-adventures. Good books.

Another thing I find bizarre is that since I write romance and chick lit, some people seem to think it’s all I read. I recommend novels to friends, and they say, “Oh, I don’t really like romance.” “Um, okay, but this is Dean Koontz. It’s a paranormal thriller.” Here’s the thing: I like good books. Genre doesn’t really matter. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I’m very fortunate that my job is filled with avid readers of all varieties — they read chick lit, romance, mysteries, thrillers, biographies, literary novels, non-fiction historical treatises, military adventures… and they don’t look down on any of it. One day they are expounding on the things they’ve learned from a hefty tome about the tradition of crabbing in the Chesapeake, the next day they’re all over the new Sophie Kinsella. It’s beyond cool. And if they don’t read a genre that another reads, they assume it’s due to personal taste, and not another person’s lack of it. I love being a writer who works there. I love that the other workers (who are often writers and artists themselves) are so welcoming and respectful of the creative process.

I wish I could get to the point where I don’t feel it is necessary to defend what I write and read and enjoy to others. It’s a goal. Someday.

Meanwhile, I’m getting new batteries for my cassette player.