In The Ghetto
And this has nothing to do with Elvis. But I've been thinking on this, about the strange fierceness that attends identification with and belonging to a genre community. I write skiffy, I write horror, I write (on occasion) fantasy, but I also write stuff that is not necessarily identifiable with those particular classifications. When I'm actually writing, that is. I've been reading quite a lot lately and many of the authors who have become stalwarts are showing a tendency to stray beyond their traditional genre boundaries. I name Baxter, I name Joyce, and there are others. Or those that wander far away on purpose, e.g. Lethem, Mike Marshall Smith.

There also seems to be a growing trend to write what are basically historical novels under the guise of genre. Then, I look at the other way around. Look at those that claim not to be genre, but then wander fairly purposefully into the genre camp but refuse to acknowledge it in public. Look at Atwood.

Those hard within the core of genre bare their teeth and brandish the spears of trueness to the form, to the tradition. Talks and posturings about the lit-rat-char abound. I wonder if it really matters. Personally, I think not. It's all about the fact that we're really fanboys and girls at heart and we need to justify to ourselves and others the place of the heroes of our perception, and thereby justify our own toils and aspirations.

I have started writing my next book. It is, as usual, a story of alienation and apartness. Whether it wall fall into any of our recognised genre categories remains to be seen. It doesn't really matter. That's for the agent to worry about.