Browsing the Guardian this week, I encountered a deliberately provocative headline – ‘Howard Jacobsen: All my books are apocalyptic. I have never met an intelligent optimist’ – and promptly did a double-take when I read down to see that Jacobsen has apparently been shortlisted for the Booker Prize for his latest novel, J, which is being described as ‘dystopian’ and ‘apocalyptic’. I frowned at the computer screen, trying and failing to reconcile this information with Jacobsen’s self-professed status as someone who is contemptuous of genre things; a man who once argued that what makes genre fiction genre fiction is its formal predictability… the best novels will always defy category‘. And, indeed, it’s clear that Jacobsen does include dystopian fiction as a type of genre writing, as per his assertion that ‘internecine war will sometimes break out between the genrists – paranormalists deriding the moralistic pretensions of dystopians, for example‘. One could be forgiven for expecting, therefore, that Jacobsen has taken issue with such labels being applied to his own work; or at the very least, has failed to use those labels himself.

Apparently not. ‘In a way,’ he says, ‘all my books are apocalyptic.’

In his 2012 review of Michael Chabon’s Telegraph Avenue, Hal Parker made a salient observation about Chabon’s use of genre:

Reappropriating genre literature under the aegis of high culture has become a familiar convention of postmodern literary fiction; really, “literary genre fiction” is arguably a genre of its own at this point. Even more common is the practice of saturating a novel in a given milieu to such a degree that the milieu itself comes to serve as the “brand” of the novel. There, however, lies the rub: While Mr. Chabon is white, much of the milieu providing the “brand” of Telegraph Avenue (soul and jazz music, Blaxploitation films, the Black Panthers, Oakland and its environs) is unmistakably black. What this means is that “literary genre fiction” now runs the risk of becoming a kind of sophisticated “literary gentrification”—a process by which a predominantly black milieu is appropriated by a white novelist as a springboard. Put simply, is the story of “Brokeland,” whatever it may be, really Mr. Chabon’s to tell?

Though Parker is speaking specifically about a white writer’s appropriation of black culture, going on to link these elements with the novel’s arguable classification as a work of ‘gentrification fiction,’ the idea of literary gentrification has, I would argue, a wider and more general applicability which he himself acknowledges: namely, the idea of literary writers seeking to detach – and therefore, in their frequent estimation, elevate, or even rescue – genre ideas from their cultural, narrative and contextual points of origin. Part of what makes this such a difficult phenomenon to discuss, however, is the fact that ‘genre fiction’ has long since become an umbrella term encompassing wildly different types of writing, each with its own history, heroes and hallmarks, and each with varying points of intersection and overlap with the others. Much like a university attempting to unite a handful of disparate academic schools under a single banner by turning them into a college, ‘genre fiction’ is often treated – and, as a consequence, called on to defend itself – as if it were a single, coherent entity, and not, as per the university model, an administrative and academic siphonophore. As such, I would argue that genre fiction isn’t a genre in and of itself, but rather a college of genre – and that makes for some interesting analysis.

For instance: author N. K. Jemisin, who is African-American, has spoken in the past about her books being shelved in the African-American section of bookshops, despite the fact that she writes epic fantasy. It’s worth quoting her at length on this point, for reasons that will hopefully become apparent:

I understand why this section exists — because the publishing industry rather notoriously would not publish books by or about black people until the 1990s, unless those books were deemed of sufficient interest to white readers. Prior to the 1990s it was kind of hard for black readers to find these “accepted” black writers (outside of Black History Month), because there weren’t many of them, and because their works were mixed in with the mainstream. So black readers had to rely on word-of-mouth — which, pre-internet, was actually kind of limiting…

It took black authors self-publishing to lucrative success, with some rather famously becoming bestsellers by hand-selling self-pub’d books from the trunks of their cars, to prove to the industry that yes Virginia, black people do read, and what’s more they buy, and I dunno gee maybe it’s kind of racist to assume otherwise. So publishers paid attention and started snatching up black writers, and later black small presses, in an effort to latch on to this “new” audience. Many of them started heavy-handed marketing campaigns designed to appeal to the “urban” reader (where “urban” somehow = “black”) by using arcane language (e.g. “keepin’ it real!”) and plastering poorly-designed book covers with women who looked like music video refugees and men who looked like ex-cons. Or whatever the industry thought ex-cons looked like. And some black readers were grateful for the attention, after so long a time of neglect.

Problem is, most black readers aren’t “new” readers. That was a misconception derived from the initial racist assumption by publishers and retailers that “black people don’t read”; to people who swallowed that baloney, it must have seemed as though millions of black readers suddenly sprang fully-formed from E. Lynn Harris’ forehead in 1995. This is a completely illogical, frankly asinine assumption — what, were we all sitting around playing with our Dick and Janes before that? But that’s racism for you; logic fail all over the place.

And instead of dropping that original racist assumption that black people didn’t read, the industry gave it an upgrade: OK, black people do read, but they don’t read like the rest of us (read: white people, because Latinos and Asians and so forth don’t matter). And they don’t have the same need for well-drawn characters, engaging plots, etc., because they’re not very smart or well-read. All we have to do is give them are plenty of examples of people who look like them and speak “the vernacular” and deal with “their issues” (which are not like our issues). Profit! And because the industry also assumed that nobody but black people would want to read all this, y’know, “black stuff”, they decided to dump it all onto a single shelf, usually in the back of the store, and stick a label on it: African American Interest. Which might as well have read, “Everybody But Black People, Nothin’ to See Here. Move Along.”…

As a result of this old and new racism, the AAF section of today is mostly just a constricted, homogenizing ghetto. Writers stuck there — those who aren’t big enough to be cross-marketed — have lower earning potential, because it’s a lot harder to sell books when they’re marketed to 12% of the population than 100% of the population. Let’s not talk about how some black authors have been forced into this marketing classification against their will. And then there’s the problem of content reliability. There is no reason that anyone should look among the “thug love” books to find Alaya Dawn Johnson’s lyrical fantasy Racing the Dark. The folks who would be interested in one are highly unlikely to be interested in the other. But that is precisely what happened to her, because her book got shelved in the AAF section too.The Autobiography of Malcolm X has diddlysquat-all to do with Zane’s “Sex Chronicles”, but I have personally seen these two authors shelved side-by-side in AAF, I guess because X comes near Z on a bookshelf…

Worse, any bookstore or library that does this is, IMO, perpetuating the same racist assumptions that caused this problem in the first place. It all comes down to the idea of universality — which mostly just means “the ability to write something that appeals to white readers”, in my experience. Before the AAF boom, black readers were assumed to have no interest in books meant to appeal to white readers; hence the assumption that we “didn’t exist”. When our existence was confirmed, black readers were then assumed to be strange ducks, Not Like The Rest Of Us in taste or discernment, fundamentally alien — or Other — in our intelligence and thought processes. And black writers — despite having written mainstream books for generations — were assumed to be incapable of writing for anything other than this strange, alien audience. If “universality” = “whiteness”, well, of course we couldn’t possibly have it. Even if we did.

Trying to disentangle concepts of genre from concepts of race is, therefore, a highly problematic proposition, and one which ties in particularly to concepts of antiblackness, as per the fact that, as Jemisin points out, the African American section* is concerned only with the segregation of one specific racial identity. As such, it’s worth noting that both Howard Jacobsen and Michael Chabon are Jewish men, and while it’s conceivable that Telegraph Avenue might have been shelved in the AAF section, Chabon’s other works – such as, for instance, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, which arguably belongs to the college of genre, and which, as the title suggests, is deeply concerned with questions of Jewish identity – would not receive the same treatment. Jacobsen’s J is similarly informed, taking place after an event described in his interview as a ‘mass pogrom’:

The new book is about the annihilation of any group, any “other”, Jacobson says. “The Jews happen to be the group that I know about, so it is informed by antisemitism, but the point is that if you get rid of ‘the other’ you then have an absence; an absence of irony, an absence of disputatiousness. No argument should ever win that completely.”

Not having read J – and despite my general dislike of Jacobsen, I’ll admit I’m tempted – I can’t pass any judgement on the quality of the book, its dystopian elements or its relationship with the college of genre. What I can say, however – and returning, at long last, to the original point – is that Jacobsen’s decision to write a dystopian work, embracing the potential of genre’s college without rescinding his previous disdain for it, and being rewarded for his efforts with a second Booker shortlisting, raises an important question. Namely: if, as Jacobsen himself contends, truly great novels defy categorisation, then in the game of literary gentrification, which writers are considered capable of transcending genre while still employing its tropes, and which are not? Because if, per Parker’s criticism of Telegraph Avenue, there’s a parallel to be made between the racial implications of a particular narrative and the context in which that narrative is both created and received, and by whom, then it doesn’t seem irrelevant that, whereas works like Jacobsen’s J, Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road are, apparently without effort, classed as being both literary and genre-transcendent while still possessing strong dystopian roots, something like Nnedi Okorafor’s Who Fears Death is not. When Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time-Traveller’s Wife, with its titular SFFnal conceit, can be shelved and discussed as a purely literary work, but Octavia Butler’s Kindred or Delia Sherman’s The Freedom Maze cannot, then we have a problem. When Nicholas Sparks, a man made rich and famous by his penchant for writing about tragically beautiful white people having romantic sex in the rain, states emphatically that ‘If you look for me, I’m in the fiction section. Romance has its own section… I don’t write romance novels,’ and the bookstores of the world agree with him, while N. K. Jemisin can end up shelved in the African American section regardless of the actual content of her novels, then yes: we have a problem.

Literary gentrification is not a simple matter of famous literary authors – who, coincidentally, tend to be straight, white men – cherrypicking SFFnal tropes and declaring them cleansed of genre, transcendent of but inspired by: it is as much a question of whose writing we deem capable of having this effect as one of which writers strive to have this effect, in that however much one tries to transcend, one cannot actually achieve it – or be told that such achievement has, in fact, occurred, regardless of intention – without a critical audience to argue, or even assume, that this is the case. The idea that works either by or about POC constitute a discreet genre is, as Jemisin points out, as problematic as it is established within the industry, but despite the college of genre being long defined as the home of ‘anything and everything not deemed literary fiction’, it had never quite occurred to me before that the former can be seen to fit within the latter. Perhaps this is yet one more reason why the question of diversity within SFF has become so prominent lately: we have, at long last, begun to argue for the rights of everyone in our college, however falteringly, and if those rights are ultimately defined as ‘the right of POC to not be viewed as inhabitants of a separate genre, but as an integral and assumed part of any readership or creative body’, then so much the better.

Because as much as I loathe seeing smug literary authors speak snidely about SFF in one breath while borrowing its tropes in the next, I’d be misplacing my outrage if this was the only level on which the phenomenon disturbed me. The archetype of the straight white male literary author is so culturally ingrained at this point that it can, at times, serve to obscure the very tangible prejudices underlying the reasons for its primacy: that, now as historically, in genre as in culture, the dominance of straight, white and/or Western men in a given sphere, coupled with a corresponding lack of representation from other groups, is not a fucking coincidence. I would be far more inclined to accept Jacobsen’s argument that truly great works transcend the classification of genre if the ability to bestow transcendence was not apparently restricted to a narrow class of person, not because they’re the only ones interested in producing such works, but because we assume their works possess a certain quality that the works of others do not, even when they deal with similar themes in a similar manner. Hypocritically borrowing from a genre one professes to despise is one thing, but doing so as part of a process of literary gentrification predicated on the selfsame dystopian history of racism, sexism and exclusion of the Other you’re ostensibly critiquing is quite another.

One cannot help but wonder if Jacobsen has noticed the irony.

*As the name suggests, the African American section is something you’re unlikely to find in bookstores outside of America. I’ve never seen an equivalent section separating out, for instance, Aboriginal literature in Australian stores, but that doesn’t mean such sections don’t exist, and if you’ve seen or heard of one, I’d be interested in hearing about it.

  1. Jemisin has a valid point about black (and also Latino and gay-interest) sections. Though not so much when she argues it puts incompatible books together, because any bookstore classification system will do that. Mainstream can be anything from Tom Clancy to Nicholas Sparks to legal thrillers.

  2. Sylvia McIvers says:

    Oh, you big ole’ silly.
    It can’t be true that all books about black people are in the back of hte room.
    The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato has a black person on the cover, and it’s right there in the SF section!
    And Beth Cato is… um… white. Oh.

    But seriously? Malcom X is shelved in the black section instead of autobiography?
    I’ll be checking my local bookstores and libraries to see where it is … or IF it is… on the shelves.

    On the other hand, I’ve recently seen MLK on the autobiography shelves, and No 1 Ladies Detective Agency in the mystery shelves – not the ‘black interest’ shelves.

  3. One woman who did get into mainstream shelving with a romance was Diana Gabaldon. Of course Outlander was before “time travel romance” was identified as a subgenre so she may have thrown people for a loop.

  4. jillheather says:

    Well, most romance novels are better written than Nicholas Sparks books are, despite how he considers his books better than Shakespeare.

  5. Jean Lamb says:

    Part of the problem with literary genre-fication is that often, it’s so very badly. New! Fresh! ideas are often seen in such novels, although they were first used fifty years ago in the actual genre. Those who read say, Atwood’s THE HANDMAID’S TALE might well enjoy Suzette Haden Elgin’s Laadan books, but Elgin is passé, apparently Sometimes the appropriation is done well, but more often it’s ballyhooed for being done at all (cf dancing bear) while better practitioners are ignored.

    • I had a similar reaction to The Road. I read it and didn’t see it doing anything countless SF stories hadn’t done before (Boy and His Dog is considerably grimmer).

    • sophiahelix says:

      I hated Oryx and Crake because the world building was so bad and full of holes, but everyone seemed to think it was this amazing work of literary fiction, instead of badly done SciFi.

  6. Jean Lamb says:

    I meant ‘done’ so very badly, sorry about the missing verb .

  7. Bookgazing says:

    There used to be sections of books split out by race of the author at some large Waterstones, maybe ten years ago but the places I went also tended to cross shelve, and the practice of having these sections seems to have stopped now.

    Interesting point about which books gets marketed and talked about as ‘transcending’ genre. I’ve just had a little think and Helen Oyeyemi’s books are the only recent books I can think of by a poc author that have been pushed as lit-fic and come with full on genre elements. There are a few older examples that I can think of which have been positioned against the trend you’ve identified, but they’re not very well known in Britain so the UK market and culture’s ideas on this subject look bleak from what I can see.

    • Rose Fox says:

      Bookgazing: Colson Whitehead and Victor LaValle are two other Black authors who write genre works that are branded as literary. In Whitehead’s case, he started out writing SF, did some pure realist novels that built up literary cred, and then went back to SF. In LaValle’s case, as I recall, his publisher insisted on calling The Devil in Silver “literary horror”, and he’s quite unashamed of being a genre author.

      That said, I don’t recall either of them being referred to as “transcending” anything; literary yes, transcendent no. And of course being able to name a few specific examples does not disprove the general trend where the people who laud Lev Grossman (who also built up literary cred before returning to his genre roots) snub Nnedi Okorafor.

  8. amber says:

    Fantastic post! I wasn’t going to comment because I didn’t think I had much to add to the discussion, but my local library and local second-hand bookshop both had “Aboriginal” sections where any fiction by or about indigenous Australians got to live. This included a short young adult novel about indigenous youths struggling with alcoholism and peer pressure and the pressure of their cultural heritage and racial representation, the name of which I can’t remember, and also Mabo in the Courts, and a bunch of other odds and ends along with the usual facetious red and yellow dot paintings and drawings of boomerangs intended to be cultural. It was primarily youth-focused, and obviously the patronizing intention was to encourage indigenous youth to read and embrace their heritage, but I’m fairly sure they’d have been better off doing a display of Victor Kelleher and Brian Caswell as the overall affect was kinda racist. However it’s not something I’ve particularly seen replicated in the major chain bookstores (Dymocks, frinstance, or Borders, that fallen behemoth) or my college bookstores so it may have just been my small suburban town. The perils of anecdotal evidence, eh?

  9. Phenix Nash says:

    I was an English major back in the day and still don’t know what “literary fiction” is actually supposed to mean. I’ve become suspect of the term for reasons you and some of the commenters have mentioned above.

  10. […] Foz Meadows discusses the gentrification of genre fiction. […]

  11. Excellent points — thank you. Small correction throughout: it’s Jacobson, not Jacobsen. Adam Roberts has an interesting review of J here:

  12. […] gig. •Are most of the people who “transcend genre” white and male? Foz Meadows wonders. •If you’re writing anything set in the 1970s, here’s some cool apartment […]

  13. Jinian says:

    If the argument you’re making is about the race of the author, Delia Sherman seems like an odd example. I read her appearance as very white indeed, though maybe her name doesn’t sound like it, and subject matter probably plays a role, too. Of course, as you mention, some white authors get a pass for writing about black people. (The more condescendingly the better! I doubt there was any danger of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency ending up in African-American Interest.)

  14. scryingorb says:

    I read J and found it baffling and terrible. It does not surprise me the writer is self aggrandizing and out of touch. I wrote about the book here:

    I’m curious how often book shelving is author ordained vs. marketing-publishing. I recently read Michel Faber’s The Book of Strange New Things and really enjoyed it. It’s a baldly sci-fi premise and 90% of the book takes place on another planet. Faber named most of the characters after comic book writers. Yet it’s ‘genre-defying literary fiction’ according to the praise on the book.

    It also feels like the entire ‘magical realism’ category was created, bent-over-backwards, to have a literary classification that was fantasy without being fantasy.

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