Got any idea what you’re writing these days?


I DON’T KNOW what I’m reading anymore.

I don’t know what I’m writing anymore.

Does anyone?

Novels are being caged.

Authors are being imprisoned.

The cages and prisons all have the same name.

They’re called genre.

I was talking to a friend the other day, and she writes science fiction: pure, raw, hones, and unadulterated science fiction.

Stories of a distant time.

Stories of a life that is to come.

But are her novels really science fiction?

Or are they speculative fiction?

Or apocalyptic fiction?

Or post-apocalyptic fiction?

Or dystopian?

Or steampunk?

She doesn’t know.

And it damn well matters. Amazon makes it matter.

Your novel may be listed under one genre today and another genre tomorrow.

Do you have any idea why?

Neither do I.

But then, this whole dependence on genres is usually chaotic and usually confusing.

For example, I write thrillers. At least, I thought I did.

They follow an operative, probably a spy, for an intelligence group that probably doesn’t exist, into war-torn Europe during Hitler’s mad march for power. It is packed with intrigue, suspense, espionage, uncertainty, anxiety, terror, conspiracy, a little romance and a touch of adventure.

It has all of the ingredients for a thriller.

I know.

I read the rules.

But, alas, the novels are set in the late 1930s and early 1940s.

These novels aren’t thrillers. That’s why I’m told.

They are historical fiction.

Foolish me.

I thought historical fiction focused on wagon trains and settlers moving west, fighting tough times, bitter weather, Indian threats, and holding gunfights in the middle of a Dodge City alley.


Those are Westerns.

But if the cowboy kisses the cute little schoolteacher, it’s historical fiction, and if she takes her dress and pinafore off often enough, it’s erotica.

In my reading life, always thought the novels featuring Sherlock Holmes were mysteries.

I felt the same about Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon.

And Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.

I guess the stories are historical fiction, too.

So, did Jules Verne write science fiction when his characters went from the earth to the moon or journeyed to the center of the earth?

They were when he wrote them.

Now they’re historical fiction.

They happened a long time ago.

I’ve often wondered: In what year do contemporary novels begin, and when does the past end?

Can anyone tell me?

Does anyone know?

Do you write a romance?

Or romantic suspense?

Or historical romance?

Or is your novel modern enough to be chick lit?

Or sexy enough to be erotica?

Is your heroine a nurse?

Maybe it’s medical fiction?

Or is she a detective?

Maybe it’s only a mystery or crime fiction or a romantic thriller

We are all chained to genres – readers and writers alike. There was a time that I separated novels into two categories.

Books and authors I liked.

Books and authors I didn’t like.

I read Shane one week, The Guns of Navarone the next, The Robe when mother was watching, and The Martian Chronicles before the month ended.

I never gave genre a thought.

They were good books.

I liked good books.

Why can’t Good be a genre?


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