According to the Huffington Post, “In essence, the best genre fiction contains great writing, with the goal of telling a captivating story… Literary fiction is composed of the heart and soul of a writer’s being, and is experienced as an emotional journey through the symphony of words.”
Well then.
This explanation comes from Medium: “The aim of commercial fiction is entertainment… Literary fiction does put the artistry first.”
Okay.
An article written by Scott Francis for Writers Digest says this: “Literary fiction is usually more concerned with style and characterization than commercial fiction…usually paced more slowly than commercial fiction…usually centers around a timeless, complex theme… Commercial fiction…is faster paced, with a stronger plot line (more events, higher stakes, more dangerous situations).”
I’ve read genre fiction that centers on timeless themes, such as good versus evil. Why can’t literary fiction combine both fast pace and a “symphony of words”? I read an older Nevada Barr novel which did combine action and short, albeit impressive, descriptions of nature. Her book read quickly, yet the combination of literary fiction and greed, murder, and money gave me time to catch my breath.
Here’s an excerpt from Take Sides with the Truth: The Postwar Letters of John Singleton Mosby to Samuel F. Chapman, edited by Peter A. Brown. This letter from Mosby to his wife is regarding the Battle of First Manassas: “The Yankees gave way, they seemed overwhelmed with confusion and despair. They abandoned everything—arms, wagons, horses, ammunition, clothing, all sorts of munitions of war. They fled like a flock of panic-stricken sheep.” This book does read slowly.
Here’s an excerpt from the Paul Lynch novel Red Sky in Morning: “Evening loitered then draped itself upon the sky. The water turbid and thrashing and he knew it was treacherous and he rode upstream until he met a spot less urgent.” This book combines tension, history, and literary style. Taking the number of pages into consideration, this is still a quick read.
I found Fallen Land by Taylor Brown in the adult section of my library, although it fits well into YA. How can a story about two teenagers being chased into a strange land by a bunch of brutal AWOL Confederates led by a homicidal man during war be a slow read? It can’t—even with incredible descriptions. “Pale light crept into the black stanchions of pine, the ashen ground, the red center of dying coals.” “He dropped down, down out of the mountain in darkness, his breath and the breath of the horse pluming together, their dust hounding them as they rode.” “The man lay there, limbs askew, shells around him barnacled and broken.”
So, what’s the point of this blog? I am of the opinion that resilient authors dare to add stunning prose to suspenseful stories; they dare to hold their readers in a death grip, then add a sentence of jaw-dropping description extracted from deep within their talent; they dare to add suspense and thrilling scenes to their literary works; they dare to cross genres.
Will literary substance slow down my story too much? Make my readers think I’m going soft?
You decide.
Fascinating discussion, Rainey. I, too, appreciate word artistry, and your point about genre fiction rings true. But pedantic writing leaves me cold, and it can appear in genre as well as literary fiction. I just finished a mainstream novel with no chapter divisions and large chunks of boring, repetitive narrative. It could not be dismissed as less than outstanding, though, because the overall message was so powerful. It’s a good example of, “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.” The novel? The highly praised, international bestseller, THE CIRCLE.
Voice, I think, is what you’re referring to. I made this point not long ago in this forum: “The conclusions I made about a writer’s responsibility to their readers was an embracement of writing where the writer’s voice is unique, strong, even poetic at times. I believe literary rather than genre fiction best reveals the quality of a writer’s voice. Connan the Grammerian, written by Susan Mackay Smith describes the essence of voice: “Voice: the most indefinable, elusive, subtle qualtiy of writing. …Conan can’t define voice but knows it when he reads it.””
Genre fiction certainly can reflect literary voice. One very good example is Cormack McCarthy’s “Blood Meridian.”
Rainy, a provocative observation–I have another example for you (but it might be shameless self promoting, sorry). I was stunned when my debut novel, The Flapper, the Scientist, and the Saboteur’s Kirkus review came back to me saying. . . “This story becomes much more complicated than the simple whodunit–it delightfully turns into serious literature.” I never even thought about it being a “literary piece”. It’s a suspenseful, fast paced story with relentless conflict.This certainly upped my angst about the quality of my second book; however, like the first it too earned a Kirkus Starred Review and both were named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books of 2018. This publishing business and process leaved me totally confused. Happy writing to you and wishing you the best with your political thriller.
Janet,
I’ve heard that “The Circle” would be best if chapters had been added to break up the ‘long chunks of narrative’. I certainly will read it now.
Perhaps that’s why I write instead of edit and publish. 🙂
Thank you for your addition to this discussion, perhaps a never-ending story?
George,
I remember your post and fought with myself to submit mine which has similarities.
I agree, the voice is a strong pull and determines the character, (self/education/past/present). However, in the Maltese Falcon, Sam didn’t have a poetic voice, at least what I recall from the book and not in the movie. Protags of Deaver, Baldacci, Connelly, and Cussler don’t usually lure readers with literary finesse. (At least the last works I’ve read.) Perhaps I’m recalling only the mystery and suspense.
I do find that many antags have a more literary quality to them.
You’ve given me more to think about when I edit and create my characters!
I appreciate your addition to this discussion and have added, “Blood Meridian” to my read list.
The author’s voice, Rainy, may or may not transcend dialogue. As noted, it’s an elusive quality which isn’t that easy to pin down. To expect Sam Spade to speak poetically–if that’s how you define literary–is probably heading down the wrong track. Again, for me the best example is Cormack McCarthy–“Blood Meridian” or “Suttree.”
Char,
What a great title! Congratulations! Hey, you get a chance to promote–do it. You’ve proven in favor of George’s response, I think. Yes, once-in-a-while, I am confused by this business too.
I have added your first book to my read list too.
Thanks for your contribution to the discussion.
Thanks, George.
I appreciate your thoughts and have put Blood Meridian on my to-read list.
Some great insights. I once submitted a work for critique. The chapter described an old man who carried his row boat in a horse-drawn wagon to a broad reservoir where he launched it, fished as he thought of his late wife, ate lunch, and fell asleep. He awoke to find the reservoir totally drained. The woman leading the critique session summarized her scathing criticism in a succinct sentence: “Nothing happened.” Probing, I learned that she longed for action, action, action, action and detested my spending time setting the mood, exploring internal dialogues, and describing the scene. Taking her thoughts to heart, I sat down with the story, re-read it, and didn’t change a single word.
Yes, we learn from critique not always to take comments to heart.
I once presented a story at critique about a rumpled, sad, lonely office worker named Dimley (yes, very dark literary fiction) who spent his lunch hour feeding pigeons within a grotto-like recess made from the backs of buildings on three sides. It was raining, and a single streetlamp, “…fooled by the day’s dark, still beamed at the mouth of the grotto.” I ended the story with the pigeons taking flight, the moisture on their wings forming a mist that caught the streetlamp’s glare, thus creating rainbows. “Very near to smiling, Dimley grunted and said, ‘Ah, rainbows.’ He lowered his head, plodded back to the sidewalk, back to the swarm of the salient dread.”
I’ll never forget a comment from my one of my critique partners: “Wouldn’t it make more sense if he just looked toward the street and saw a woman wearing a rainbow-colored skirt?” I was speechless. My voice lost. How could someone not see the inevitable rightness of that rainbow?
Amen. Thanks for sharing your experience.
d.p.
Thank you for your addition to our discussion.
We write for our own reasons in our own choice of genre/cross-genre. As long as we learn from our critique groups/other authors, then we’ve used well our time.
Well put. Thanks.