Really, Who Gives A Damn?

If the years have taught me anything at all, it's that genre is not only useless, but often pernicious: genre can distort perception, and give us false impressions of writers and their work.

Consider this false impression: I used to believe that I loved science fiction, horror, ghost stories, and certain types of fantasy. The truth is, I have never loved these things; instead, I have always loved the work of certain writers categorized, comfortably or kicking, into these illusory straitjackets.

One side-effect of my false belief was the nagging compulsion to "keep up" with various fields. This became a chore, then a burden, then a series of shooting pains, until I realized that only certain writers were able to speak to me; only certain writers were able to strike nerves that I had not known existed.

In contrast, one side-effect of losing this false belief was the liberating discovery that certain writers unconnected with genres were able to give me the same pleasures, the same frissons and shocks, that I had hoped to find within the genres. Labels were no longer useful to me, and the absence of labels was no longer a hindrance.

The result? If people were to ask me, now (and no one ever will, thank goodness, because really, who gives a damn about what I read?) "Do you like science fiction? Horror? Fantasy?" I would have to be honest, and say, No, I often hate them.

But if anyone were foolish enough to ask me about certain writers, I could talk for days on end, without end. No one would be fool enough to try, and my silence in the world beyond the Blind Side Web will remain untroubled.