I don’t call myself a writer, because I think that in order to go around introducing yourself as a writer you have to actually have written something–and in this case I’m going to put “something” in quotations because that “something” is not nothing but rather something, that something being publication, or, though I don’t know what it would be, some other kind of validation from a qualified second-party that says what you’ve written can actually be called “writing.”
Got me?
Basically: you can call yourself black but if everyone else see’s a white guy when they look at you… then you just look foolish.
Anyway, I’ll reserve calling myself a writer until I publish something… that’s my own little rule, and it’s fair. But I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what kind of writer I might end up being, and what I’ve written so far, and through the course of that have made some interesting discoveries.
For example, a few weeks ago I set out to really define what exactly the difference is between science-fiction and fantasy, and more broadly what exactly the difference is between “fiction” and “literature” and what it means for me.
Here’s what I’ve come up with, without actually citing any sources:
A science-fiction story incorporates something fantastic and extraordinary, something that doesn’t exist or doesn’t exist yet but could in theory, and explains it rationally and scientifically or, if it doesn’t, the reader can infer enough to have it make sense in his head.
Fantasy also incorporates something fantastic and extraordinary but instead of explaining it, simply wraps it up into “laws of the universe,” or some other explanation that, as long as it’s consistant with the story, the reader accepts as truth.
Example: A Unicorn appears in a field. A science-fiction story would go on to say that the Unicorn was the result of gene-splicing between a horse, donkey, a house fly, and the flu virus, or something. A fantasy story would say that the Unicorn exists because Unicorns have always existed, and that’s all you need to know about it.
Kind of obvious, but there’s enough overlap–something extraordinary that doesn’t exist (yet?)–that I see why they are lumped together, and honestly I appreciate fantasy a lot more because I branched out and actually read some of it.
As for what makes something “fiction” and what makes something “literature,” well, the difference I’ve been able to identify is that if a Professor at some Literary Elite University (or Oprah) says it’s good, then it’s literature. If it’s just something entertaining, it’s fiction. If it teaches you a life lesson and makes you see the world differently (or you at least pretend that it does), it’s literature. If you can study the author and what he was going through in his life at the particular time he wrote the story and spend time deciphering all the metaphors–it’s literature. If you can’t, “it’s fiction.”
Not all fiction is literature, but I think all literature is fiction. I, for one, don’t go into the “Literature” section much, but don’t necessarily have anything against it. I enjoy “fiction” more than literature, because the stories I enjoy most and the stories I enjoy writing the most are meant to entertain, and that’s it. Any life lessons I might derive from it are an added bonus and, I think, a natural consequence of studying other fictional people going through life.
As a side-note, I know someone out there is reading this and is thinking about making the comment, “If you have a rule as to when you can call yourself a writer, you might add as a prerequisite that you actually venture into the literature section because that is the only true form of writing.” To them, I say, go and continue to be a member of the Literary Elite and let the rest of us enjoy the guilty pleasures of Twilight. (And I can feel your blood pressure rising.)
Anyway — this is all a long winded way of saying that most of my life I’ve considered myself a science-fiction guy, and so as an extension I’ve classified most of my stories as science-fiction and even at some points forced the stories to be science-fiction because it’s where I think I’m most comfortable.
However, as I study the distinctions between genres more, I’d actually hope to call myself–when the day comes–a horror writer. And I didn’t see that coming.
The stories I’ve written that I’m most proud of would all be classified as horror, and most have nothing to do with science-fiction. Two great examples are Foundations* and Heartbreakers*–and they are great examples because I don’t cringe as much when I think of people reading them like I do when I re-read other things I’ve written. There’s a third example, Monsters in the Closet* , which I thought was science-fiction when I was writing it but now know is not, since it only happens to feature what you’re led to believe is an alien but could actually be a demon, shadow walker, human in the last throws of radiation sickness… even Unicorn. (That particular story has a more subtle twin in Ground Level*, which I wrote knowing full well it was not science-fiction.)
All three of these stories feature something necessary for a story to be classified as horror: the unraveling of the norm to expose the gritty reality behind ordinary things. What you thought was truth is not–and maybe you knew it all along!
Steven King says there are three subsets to the Horror genre: terror (that feeling you get that immobilizes you), horror (the escaped murderer is coming to get you!), and revulsion/gross-out (worms coming out of your eye sockets, or bugs eating you alive). I’d like to think those four stories above fit somewhere between the first two. And if I can pull off this NaNoWriMo project next month the way I want–I’ll have another doozy for ya.
All of this also has the added benefit of explaining why the movie Signs is my favorite… yeah, it’s about aliens, and that’s maybe why I thought I liked it so much–but ultimately we’re not even really sure it was aliens. And it’s not necessarily a science-fiction movie. Most of it’s draw was the spooky aspect of it, the horror.
People poo-poo all over the God-Did-It ending, but I’ve always thought maybe we called the creatures in the movie aliens because they fit the stereotype so well–but perhaps they were actually demons, and, yes, God turned the water into holy water and it corrupted their essence and so they dissolved back into the Netherrealm, or whatever. And don’t bother telling me you’re sure it was aliens because M. Night Shyamalan told you it was on the back of the DVD, because that doesn’t matter. It’s a story and his interpretation is just as valid as mine–he just happened to write it.
Anyway, that’s all. Just wanted to get some of my thoughts down.
“My belief [is that] no one is exactly sure of what they mean on any given subject until they have written their thoughts down; similarly, I believe that we have very little understanding of what we have thought until we have submitted those thoughts to others who are at least as intelligent as ourselves.” -Stephen King
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