Mixing Genres in Fiction

I have always felt boxed in by the definition of “genre” when it comes to writing fiction. Why be bound by the rules of a craft when that craft itself is in a state of evolution, and where tomorrow’s rules may be today’s exploratory scribbling?

When I sat down to compile my new short story collection, Crossing Limbo, I drew from stories written over the last ten years, written with long time intervals between each piece. Therefore, the stories didn’t resemble each other. When I wrote each piece I hadn’t the intention that they would ever become part of a collection, which usually requires a common theme and genre. I guess I had been scanning too many book stores which had “mystery stories,” “YA” and “fairy tales,” categorizing the shelves, and reading copious quantities of Alfred Hitchcock’s terror magazines to draw the conclusion that stories accrete to specific genres. I wrote my pieces whenever something had intrigued me at the time, and I selected the appropriate voice and genre that gave my subject matter the greatest expression.

Therefore, when I wanted to write about greed, I thought I would make the narrator a dog who is observing this weakness in humans; when I wanted to portray an Arab Spring, I put myself in the shoes of the bad dictator to understand his take on the approaching “bad season”; when I wanted to check out the seductive world of swingers, I had an inexperienced housewife naively enter the club to experience its shock impact; when I wanted to explore predation on the internet, I created a fictional chat line; when I wanted to write about disadvantaged immigrants, I chose the voice of one who had fallen on the wrong side of the track through no fault of his own; when I thought “ romance,” I thought how neat would it be to explore this ephemeral state with two candidates at extreme ends of the game of love: a tantric sex instructor and a sexless corporate executive. You can see where this is going… Before long, I had a mixed bag of stories that included the genres of magic realism, suspense, crime, erotica, romance and everything else that I could lump under the broad umbrella of “literary fiction.” Who was going to buy this?

Then I said to myself, had I written a novel, I wouldn’t have been able to cover such a broad expanse of human experience without writing the next War & Peace. With short stories, I could get in deep and get out quickly and move onto the next, and readers would take that as par for the course. Besides, in these speeded-up times, the short story is supposed to be the replacement to the novel, just as the 140-byte Twitter line is supposed to replace the 420-byte Facebook post. Neither of these things have happened yet, but we are told to anticipate them. So I pitched my collection with this “deep and quick” angle in view and my publisher bought it. The editor added that even though the genres varied, the theme was consistent: dark literature about people traversing their personal limbo towards redemption. I hadn’t thought of that!

So I have this cocktail of a book coming out shortly, and I am hoping that readers will appreciate the different genres, although I suspect that some form of selection will take place and the audience will divide and gravitate to different stories based on individual taste. However, I am hoping that bibliophiles, who devour everything, will find a smorgasbord in this collection instead of just Indian Curry, Japanese Sushi, or Italian Pasta, and that it will satisfy their diverse tastes. And I look forward, somewhat in trepidation, to the reaction afterwards from all camps. Any book, once released, takes a life of its own. All the writer can do is reflect on the hours of engagement he had with it, akin to raising a child, and wishing it well when it leaves the nest.

The drug novel – a new sub-genre in fiction

I’m wondering if the time has come for us to classify the drug novel as a distinct sub-genre in fiction. In the absence of global wars (wars have gone local or regional these days) and other universal grist mills of human conflict, it seems that drug dependency has become a prevalent theme in our times, a state of being that many can identify with. All the ingredients for a gripping novel are here: premise, weapon…err…drug, hero, villain, and setting.

 The Premise – The scientific-minded rationalize that we are made up of chemicals, and that sometimes we go out of balance, so we need to restore that balance, and a little pill is all that is required. The traditionalists wail that our romance with the pill is because the world has gone to pot (I suppose even a pot pill must be out there now that the legal walls around marijuana are crumbling) and we are consequently killing ourselves faster and faster, although life expectancy rates show otherwise. The elderly thank the stars that their personalized bag of pills is keeping them alive longer, but mourn that the pills have not shown them how to command purpose, respect and dignity in their sunset years. And the young are forever trying to find a higher level of buzz, because the stuff of a generation ago is so dumb. Lots premises for basing the drug novel…

 The Weapon – Drug consumption falls into several types: the ones taken for recreation due to boredom with the quotidian; the ones taken to escape the pain of that daily grind; the ones taken for illness, that need to be counterbalanced with others due to the side effects from the first, and with still others for the side effects from the counterbalancing drugs, and so on; the ones taken to insulate us from a hostile environment (aka allergens); the ones taken because our mood is considered either too chirpy or too low. Even the medical profession has taken its first line of offence against any out-of- pattern situation with the “Do I have just the pill for you!” line.

The Hero – We could classify drug users as damaged heroes, hapless victims, weak protagonists, or unreliable narrators. They evoke sympathy in whichever way you classify them, and sympathetic characters sell, these days.

The Villains – The good villain, aka Big Pharma, promises us that “this little pill is good for you,” but then gets you hooked on it for life (e.g. statins, blood-pressure medication, sleeping pills, etc.), ensuring a steady cash flow while being protected by patents; the bad villain, aka the Drug Dealer, feeds us recreational drugs to make us “feel good,” and also hooks us for life, until death or bankruptcy do us part; the insurance company decides which drugs are good for us and throws wrenches into the best laid medical plans. And let’s not forget the arch-villains: Cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and other fatal illnesses that drive us towards drugs.

The Setting – This world is bleak, where hope has been sucked out and the only exit leads downhill; a world of unrealized dreams, damaged lives, grieving families, scarred children, and death or suicide staring you in the face.

This is not an easy sub-genre to digest, and I have stayed away from reading such downers because, in many instances, there is a lack of hope associated with these stories. A writer who thinks he can shock or entertain us with this stuff is taking a risk, for many of us would rather not be reminded; somewhere in our circle, someone is wrestling with this very demon, and we are too scared to get near lest we too succumb or be reminded of our failed salvage efforts.

My guess however is that this sub-genre will thrive the more we get obsessed with viewing our lives as art (Proust Revisited, Knausgaard, Bolano et al), as fiction approaches the real, and as the Selfie gains ascendance. The ingredients of a modern day-in-the-life scenario now routinely include a joint of weed, a sniff of heroin, a cocktail of prescription meds, or a bag of anti-depressants, and these drugs seep into the novel as regular props and devices, just like cigarettes and alcohol did a generation ago.

As for me, I plan to steer clear of these books for now. I never say never though, for who knows, one day I may end up pharmaceutical-dependent (inevitable as we age, it seems) and may have to go seeking a little bit of company and sympathy from fictitious junkie friends.