Literary vs. Genre – What’s the Difference?

My local library system gives me the ability to checkout audio or ebooks onto my phone. Their search criteria include the choice of 118 “collections” or I’ll use the word genres. Some are overlaps, still, that is quite a few ways to hunt for what you want to read next. Many readers find a writer they like and search on that person for what’s the next book. Maybe you’ve heard your favorite author described as a genre writer. Or a literary writer. What those two words mean can be confusing. Especially to those who haven’t obtained their Master of Fine Arts, the only area where I think the difference matters to anyone.

Let’s start with dictionary definitions. From my The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, New Collect Edition circa 1975, we have:

Genre – 1.a. Type: class: variety. 1.b. A distinctive class or category of literary composition. [French, kind, from Old French gen(d)re, From the Latin genus (seem gener) – race, kind.] 2.a. A category of art distinguished by a definite style, form, or content.

(note that the root of genre – genus, is the same root as genes and gender)

Literary – Of relating to or dealing with literature. 2.a. Found in, or appropriate to literature: a literary style. 2.b. Employed chiefly in writing rather than speaking

Literature – 1.a A body of writings in prose or verse. 2. Imaginative or creative writing: belles-lettres. 3.The body of written work produced by scholars or researches in a given field: 5. Printed material of any kind, as for a political or advertising campaign. [From Latin litterarura, writing, learning, from literatus, learned.]

From the Oxford English Dictionary (OED)

Genre — a particular subject or style of literature, art, or music.

Steven Petite wrote an interesting piece for Huffingtonpost, where he discusses the difference between literary and genre writing. “An argument can be made that there are two types of fiction when it comes to novels: Genre Fiction and Literary Fiction. The former includes many subcategories such as Mystery/Thriller, Horror, Romance, Western, Fantasy, Science Fiction, etc. The latter is more difficult to classify or break apart into subcategories. To put it simply, Literary Fiction is anything that does not fit into a genre.”

This version of the word genre puts the act of writing in first place, the type of writing or rather, the subject matter in second. Combined with the dictionary definitions, genre writing is creative prose or verse with a definite style and/or content. Literary writing would also be creative prose or verse and the individual writer lends a definite style or subject. They sound almost the same, don’t they? Yet there are turf battles over these two words: literary and genre. Agents and publishers distinguish between them in their wish lists. Some publishers specialize in one or the other, and often, within a specific subject or style. Some literary readers look down on genre readers and writers.

Mr. Petite summarizes his discussion with: “In essence, the best Genre Fiction contains great writing, with the goal of telling a captivating story to escape from reality. Literary Fiction is comprised of the heart and soul of a writer’s being and is experienced as an emotional journey through the symphony of words, leading to a stronger grasp of the universe and of ourselves.”

In my words, he’s arguing that the essential difference between genre and literary fiction is on which side of reality the story is told. I see it through a different lens.

Literary fiction approaches the same ingredients from the perspective of gritty reality. Yet crime novels and intrigue novels are in the real world. Much of children’s literature (a genre – just to confuse things) take place in the real world. So that can’t be used as the primary delineator.  Perhaps it can be said that genre fiction comes at whatever deep thoughts there are from a metaphorical perspective. Good science fiction or fantasy contains made-up worlds that contain the same battles and problems as the real world, and the stories are told in a way that slips the message and learning in sideways, with entertainment to boot. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m not a deep thinker, (though my friends would argue against that) but I want my reading to delight me. That can take many forms: imaginary worlds, real worlds seen in a different light, or pure escapism. A book like Cutting for Stone by  Abraham Verghese is considered literary fiction, it takes place in a very real place. But as an American, the worlds of India and Africa described are as different to me as a dreamed-up planet in outer space. Petite’s “escape from reality” is really an “escape to another reality” (genre writing) and combines with an “emotional journey” (literary writing) to create an engaging story.

I don’t think genre writers and readers should be made to feel inferior to literary writers and readers. After all, literary fiction is another type of prose creative writing with a unique style and content. In other words, another genre. Now to decide which of the 5,075 books available at my library for download I should I pick next.

What types of books do you like and does it  matter if they are considered genre or literary?

 

9/11 Personal Essay

I’m privileged to belong to a kick-ass writing critique group. Several of our writers have been working on memoirs and personal essays. They inspired me to write this piece.

Cardinal rule of photography – have something red in the picture to focus the eye. A little boy in a red sweater was running around in San Marcos Piazza on the island of Venice chasing pigeons, on a sunny day in September of 2001. Thousands of pigeons. I sat on some steps, camera to my eye, waiting for the magical moment when he would enter their nexus and they would all fly up, giving me a shot with action, red as the focus, and glee on his face. Unfortunately, these were wise pigeons, and aside from an undulating lifting off the ground and settling again, they paid the boy no attention.

“I’m not going to get the shot,” I said to my husband. He agreed. A man with a dark complexion approached us.

“It is too bad what happened at the shopping store in America,” he said. Ken and I looked at each other. Without words we said, ‘uh?’ and one of us mumbled, ‘yeah, sure.” I pictured an explosion at the Mall of America or something like that.  The man walked off and we decided to head back to our hotel and check out the international news.

On this trip we traveled with my parents. To give each couple some time alone, we split up that day. Ken and I wandered the island, explored alleys, and saw the Bridge of Sighs. As we walked back to the hotel we passed my folks sitting at an outdoor café. Dad saluted us with his beer and we joined them at their table.

“Someone said the strangest thing,” I said and proceeded to tell them about the man.

“It’s worse than that,” Dad said. And that was when we learned what had happened in New York, on that day in September. September 11, 2001.

We made it to our hotel room and turned on the TV in time to see the plane hit the second tower.

“We’re at war,” I said. I  didn’t appreciate the psychic gravity those words held. My next thought was, “we’re at war and we are in a foreign country. How do we get home?” The US had cleared the skies of planes. Nothing took off and everything in the air landed as close to where they were as possible. We were stranded.

Over dinner that night we discussed our options. Our return trip wasn’t due to start for four days. Perhaps US airspace would open by then. If not, my folks had friends who had a new daughter-in-law whose parents lived in Germany. Ken had black level status with Marriott and we could cash in some of those points for lodging. But what if it went on for months? We couldn’t be house guests with people we didn’t know for that long.

Florence was next on our itinerary. So, we went. Might as well try to maintain some normalcy. The first night in Florence my company called my sister, back home in Michigan, to see if I had made contact. Furthest thing from my mind. She called my parents, who passed along that we were fine. It made me feel good that they did that, and that perhaps they would have stepped in with some financial help if we faced a long-term stay.

We toured Florence, saw the statue of David, took a bus ride to Pisa and took pictures of us holding the tipping structure up. All along the way, Italian vendors posted signs in their windows, “We Stand with our American Friends.” The outpouring of mutual grief and confusion was shared by all we spoke with. The defacto expat community of travelers pulled together in hotel bars. Our eyes were glued to the TV, watching the plane hit the towers over and over. Seeing bodies fall, or jump, out of windows multiple tens of stories high. Knowing that they wouldn’t make it to the ground alive. We talked. We shared where we were from, and where we were when we heard the news.

Our plane was scheduled for September 14. Florence to Frankfurt to Denver to Los Angeles. Airspace in Europe was unaffected, so our flight to Florence was on schedule. As we stood in line to check in a man approached the woman in front of us and explained that he was moving and had too much luggage for the airlines limit, would she be so kind as to carry some of his luggage aboard? I freaked out.

“You CANNOT take anyone else’s luggage. Especially after what happened.” Security was called, and the woman did not take the extra bags. I have no idea if he was legit or not, I wasn’t taking chances.

We arrived in Frankfort to find an airport in chaos. Flights to the US had been cancelled for four days at that point, and tourists with no options were bunked in the ballroom of the Hilton adjacent to the terminal. Others were camped on the floors of the airport. We scanned the boards for our flight and saw that it was cancelled and headed for the Marriott. They gave us a room and we unpacked what little we needed for the night, and our bathing suits. They hotel had a rooftop pool and I hadn’t been in water for two weeks. I’m part fish. We sat by the pool, read our books, and decided we needed to get dinner. Dressed and hungry we passed through the lobby to the restaurant. A television screen had the same flight info as the boards in the terminal and our flight scrolled up. It was no longer cancelled. We raced to our room, tossed everything back in the bags, and checked out.

The line for check-in was epic. Everyone was hoping they could be on standby. Residents of Frankfurt walked up and down the line offering spare bedrooms and couches to the stranded tourists. We had an hour and 45 minutes before the flight. After 45 minutes in line, and two or three people away from the desk, they closed the flight. New rules. All flights close one hour before doors on the plane shut. Ken blasted the lid off the poor counter worker, who probably, no, didn’t have anything to do with that decision, but his rage had to go somewhere. She was the unlucky human in his path. Back to the Marriott, which graciously gave us our room back, still unmade, and again we headed down to dinner. By now it is about 9:00 at night, and we ate simply because we knew tomorrow would be a trial as well, and we needed strength.

The next day we got to the airport with ample time, checked in and headed for the security checkpoint. The first of three. We showed our ticket and passport at each stop. The terminal was quiet except for the shuffling of feet and the mummer of voices to ask directions, quell crying children and answer security questions. At the last stop we were locked into the gate waiting area, with another armed guard blocking the door. The air was tense, like everyone was afraid to take a deep breath. I scanned the other passengers. Just as they scanned us. Was this person likely to take control of this flight and ram us into a building? Maybe that’s why taking a breath was so hard, it might imply guilt.

On board the plane we sat in our seats and stared ahead. We had bought the first Harry Potter book, two of them, so we could each read. The perfunctory safety briefing seemed ridiculous considering four hijacked planes had heard the same words. Lot of good it did them. The in-flight entertainment was silent, the map of where we are in the sky turned off. The food served with plastic sporks. No one is going to overwhelm the captain with a spork, I guess.

We landed at the Denver airport at ten at night. The passengers erupted in cheers when the wheels hit the ground. We were safe on American soil, hadn’t blown up or crashed. The relief expanded my lungs, a felt I could float through the dark terminal. Nothing was open. We were the first flight to land in Denver since September 11. They lit just enough of the cavernous United terminal, to allow us to make our way to baggage, and customs and then a line of taxis called to take us to hotels. Our footsteps echoed off the tile, concrete, and glass of the building.

The next day when we returned, the airport was up and running as if nothing had happened. Except for the security lines, which were long. No one minded.

 

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