Well, it’s day 2 of Armchair BEA, and today, there are two topics: Blogger Development & Genre Fiction.
I’m certain I’m imposing my own insecurities on the question, but I have to be honest and admit that the very notion of assessing my development as a blogger makes me feel a bit inadequate. The truth is that I consider this blog to be a hobby, a thing I do because I enjoy it, not because of any external pressure to perform. Even if no one read this blog, I would still write it. With that starting position, I feel very little compulsion to promote my blog, and if I drop off the map for three weeks because I’m unbelievably busy, I don’t feel at all bad about it. That’s not to say that I don’t take this blog seriously — quite the opposite — but I don’t measure success in terms of popularity or marketability. I have a job, and this blog isn’t it.
That said, I have developed quite a lot over the past year. For one thing, I’m a better reader than I was. For another, I’m a better writer. Best of all, this past year of blogging has helped me to chip away at my habitual reserve, to make some friends (never easy for me to do), to say some true things and put them out there for all the world to see (should the world go out of its way to find my little corner of unreserve…), to try new things. It has been a fantastic year, but these successes can be measured only on my peculiar scale.
Abrupt subject change: I’m all about genre fiction! To be honest, I think all fiction can easily be categorized as genre fiction of some sort or other. I know folk have a strong inclination to distinguish literary fiction from the sordid genre type, but this inclination seems like misplaced snobbery to me. All fiction is the work of scribbling human hands to explain some part of the human experience. Maybe that explanation comes in the form of alien planets or vampire stalkers or amorous dukes and barmaids or neurotic narrators recounting their entire misspent lives; the connecting thread running through each of those stories is the humanity of their authors. (In case you’re curious, I did just lump Children of the Mind, Twilight, Any Duchess Will Do, and In Search of Lost Time into one category, Aristotle be damned.)
Some authors undoubtedly write better than others, some come closer to achieving a real art, some have more skill at using the lies of story and narrative to tell a truth about who we are as humans, but when we assign categories to writers, we hobble ourselves as readers and limit the artistic reach of those writers. (We also inflate the egos of those writers and critics fortunate enough to be the gatekeepers of literary quality.)
I suppose I should scramble down from my soap box now and talk about the kind of stories I most want to read.
I’ve always been a sucker for a good story. When I was in elementary school and junior high, I read whatever I could get my hands on: library books, school books, my mother’s books, etc. I didn’t precisely have a favorite genre because I was just obsessed with the written word and all the knowledge it contained. The first book I read that truly took my breath away was Cynthia Voigt’s Homecoming. In junior high, I discovered fantasy books, and I read The Hobbit and tried to read The Lord of the Rings (I didn’t succeed in reading it until I was 20 and had achieved something like patience); I read Terry Brooks and Piers Anthony, and a bunch of truly terrible Dragonlance books. Then I read Jean Auel’s Earth’s Children series (books 1-4) and W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O’Neil Gear’s The First North Americans Series. Then I read Les Miserables and discovered that what I liked most in all those stories I’d read was any inkling of the redemptive power of love. Strange as it might be, it was a short skip for me from Les Miserables to romance novels, because that’s where all the love stories hide.
These days, I read romance novels almost exclusively. Some of them are terrible, and some of them are incandescently wonderful. I highly recommend each of the following.