Dr. Peter Dong: "Genre, Pointless Debates, and You"

Genre, Pointless Debates, and You

By

Peter Dong

Fans like to argue.  Baseball nuts argue about teams, players, and statistics; wine connoisseurs argue about red, white, and rosé; I don’t know enough about quilting to know what hardcore quilters argue about, but I’m certain they have something that really gets them going.  It comes with being a fan—the word is short for “fanatic,” after all.  So readers of science fiction and fantasy like to argue as well, and a favorite topic is what, if anything, distinguishes the two genres.  Arguments (“discussions,” if you like) are fun for enthusiasts, but the question of genre boundaries is one that also affects authors, new readers, publishers, and booksellers, so it makes sense to wonder if the argument is worth having.  That is: is it worth discussing whether a work is fantasy or science-fiction? 

I’d argue the answer is no.  There is, of course, some utility to labeling genre, usually involving recommendations of future reading.  It is very reasonable to say, “Oh, you like fantasy?  You should read Ursula LeGuin—she writes good fantasy.”  Similar statements facilitate communication: “I liked Asimov, and he writes science fiction.  Maybe I should read other science fiction writers, like Pohl.”   “I like fantasy.  Can you recommend some other fantasy writers?”  

All of these rely on the use of genre to find similar books—a worthy goal, useful for neophytes and veterans alike, which might make genre seem an indispensable tool for readers.  But its usefulness is limited because, in the end, most readers’ goal in seeking another work of fantasy is enjoyment—not because the book is a fantasy book, but because the book is good.  Getting the genre right may increase the odds of finding a book you enjoy, but then again, you might get greater enjoyment from reading something a bit different.

Someone—many people—might suggest to a new reader, “You like fantasy?  You should read Tolkien—he’s the greatest fantasy writer.”  However, plenty of fantasy enthusiasts don’t care much for Tolkien (though they are usually careful not to say so in public, for fear of angry Quenya-speaking mobs), since he lacks many of the other hallmarks of modern fantasy: strong female characters, a detailed system of magic, clerics and gods, colloquial language, a sense of pacing, and romance (or sex).  Thus, the classification of Tolkien as fantasy, or even as high fantasy, isn’t necessarily helpful.

On the other hand, someone could say—utterly wrongly—“You like fantasy? You should read Bridge to Terabithia—it’s a great fantasy book.”  And if I enjoyed The Chronicles of Narnia, I might very well enjoy Bridge to Terabithia, even though I might get to the end and wonder who would ever consider it fantasy.

There is, of course, a minor effect of expectations and conventions that a reader takes to a novel.  I call this a minor effect because of my experience, common to most of us, of reading a good book without asking about its genre.  In the end, people didn’t like Harry Potter books because they were fantasy—they liked them because they were enjoyable.  When we first picked up the work by Asimov, or Zelazny, or Tolkien, or Gaiman, that served as our introduction to science fiction or fantasy, we came with a clean slate (or perhaps only slightly dusty): we liked the book for its content, not for its genre.  No one had to tell me that The Hobbit was fantasy and therefore I would like it—I just knew that I liked it.

In fact, I found that genre specification hurt me as a reader.  In junior high school I was so adamant that I was a fantasy reader—I read fantasy, my brother read spy thrillers, and never the twain shall meet—that I missed out on a lot of great books, substituting a pile of mediocre fantasy novels.  It wasn’t until after college that my brother read some Tolkien and I read some Ludlum—and we both enjoyed the exchange.  

Given the broad spread of works of science fiction or fantasy, and the difficulty of categorizing them—George R. R. Martin fails to fit Tolkien’s definition of fantasy, for example—it seems best to eschew the drawing of demarcations and focus on what actually counts: finding, sharing, and enjoying great books.  The fanatics are welcome to continue their lively arguments over the exact definition of science fiction and fantasy—the rest of us can ignore them and keep reading.