Reducing Genre to the Point of Offense or Betraying One's Ignorance

I had a very limited view of what 'horror' meant for a long time. To me, it was the slasher/scare-me-to-death films of the 80s. Jason. Freddy. The stuff we watched at sleepovers that was probably a subconscious ploy to ensure we would stay up all night, because we couldn't sleep, not just because we wanted to.

In truth, I have to credit my husband for expanding my understanding of some genres. I'd make some remark about horror or another genre and he'd round up a stack of anthologies related to the topic and tell me to start reading.

The result was that my understanding of horror as a genre expanded. The Cabin in the Woods isn't Nightmare on Elm Street, although I may or may not* have still jumped when the title sequence started.

Now, I recently noted some submission guidelines from a publisher, and I took offense to them. There's been a long-standing argument between literary and genre fiction that involves the perception that literary writers look down on genre writers as being beneath them, and that genre fiction isn't seen as having the same quality as literary fiction. (I'm sure J.K. Rowling is crying over how she doesn't sell like literary writers.)

One of the perceived differences between literary fiction and genre fiction is that genre fiction is driven by a plot, with a clear beginning, middle and end. Things build up to a climax with resolution. Things happen.

Literary fiction can be more introspective, with less focus on events and actions than on the impact events have on the main characters.

I was reading a set of submission guidelines, and the publisher was pretty detailed about what they wanted. That can be a very good thing for writers, because it can help them figure out if they're a good fit with that publisher. There's nothing worse than skipping to a set of submission guidelines and seeing a generic, "Only send us material that's similar to what we publish." That can be very ambiguous because over time a publication may evolve. What Spinetingler publishes today in terms of fiction is different than what it published initially. I always go back to the story, "Jessie's Toothbrush," which we published very early on. The mystery was why the guy was so enamored with that toothbrush, but it certainly wasn't crime fiction. It was memorable, though. However, if a comparable story was submitted today it would probably get rejected because the focus has narrowed over time, and also it can be determined by the preferences of the editor, and our editorial staff has changed over time.

Specific details can be good. When a publisher has identifiable genres or subgenres they publish, it's great to know this. However, when the publisher states that they are more interested in character growth than plot and then says that's why they aren't interested in any manuscripts about characters who are in law enforcement, they've demonstrated a prejudice.

Now, those aren't the exact words that I read. I've been reading a lot of submission guidelines lately, because when I do manuscript reviews I don't always stay within one genre. I've been working on an assessment of a non-fiction manuscript, and the one before that was some sort of horror/speculative fiction piece that didn't fit easily in one box. I'm rarely hired to review crime fiction manuscripts, which means I'm often researching different genres and publishing categories so that I can provide up-to-date examples to illustrate a point I'm making to the writer I'm working with.

As I read this set of submission guidelines, I felt my blood boil. I was offended and annoyed.

It's remarkably presumptive to assume that a character who happens to work in law enforcement doesn't have the capacity for self growth, or that their journey isn't worth reading about. It also suggests a certain level of ignorance. My mind automatically went to the brilliant works of James Sallis, and the John Turner and Lew Griffin books. Those books are the definition of a personal journey for the central character. The mystery in any Lew Griffin book isn't a case but is the man himself, and what prompts his limitations and relationships.

I clicked off of that site with cheeks burning and some inappropriate words mixed in with a vow to never read a dang thing by that publisher if they were so biased against a genre I love.  

I'm not sure if it's an entirely fair response. Perhaps in another week or two I'll forget about it and even forget who said it. I understand if an editorial team has had a hefty percentage of their books be police procedurals and they want to see something else. Just say you aren't accepting police procedurals at this time. There's no need to piss on the whole genre in the process and suggest that it's so fucking beneath you that it can't say anything significant about the human equation or contribute any depth to our understanding about humanity, a person's motivations, or how it can prompt character growth.

My husband may or may not have been tired of hearing me rant about the subject, so I may or may not have needed to work this out of my system here. I also know that when I approached my latest manuscript, I wanted it to push deeper than a formulaic procedural, while still having a solid story. I don't believe the two are mutually exclusive. I don't want to live in a publishing era that suggests that's the case. I have always felt that what's more compelling about a Rebus book is the man himself than the specific crimes being investigated, and while those crimes may open the door for an examination of politics and personal views, they work best when everything from the crime to the investigation to the characters mirror the central theme of the story and amplify what the protagonist is working through.

It may be that a high number of police procedurals fall short on this account, but to suggest they all do is wrong, and the publisher could have picked a more tactful way to talk about what they wanted to see from writers, rather than making such a sweeping judgment against a whole subgenre... and I have to be honest, while I've only addressed the law enforcement restriction, that was just one of a number of careers that were excluded from submissions.

* I'm a jumper, so nobody questions when I have a strong fear reaction. This is also why I prefer to lie on the couch rather than sit.

Character Sallis-Style

By Sandra Ruttan

I tend to say I'm more character-driven than plot-driven in the writing of my novels.

However, if I were to say that I am a character writer, it wouldn't be true. Not really. I think most people who claim to be character writers aren't. Not exactly.

The reality is, my characters drive their own actions by their behavior, which is defined by their character. However, when I start any particular novel, there is an idea of a story I want to tell. I don't simply sit down and say I'm going to write another book with Ashlyn, or Tain, or Lara and Farraday.

Before I can revisit any of my characters in a work - be it short or long - I need a story idea that fits with their character that I believe can work together.

For me, the reality is that I see character and plot as the two horses pulling the carriage. For some writers, character might be stronger than plot, and for other writers it's the other way around. However, both are required to complete the novel.

For my money, the man who is writing character novels in the truest sense is also one of the most overlooked authors writing and publishing today, and for any writer serious about learning what it is to write a completely character-driven novel, they must dive deep into the works of James Sallis.


I didn't know what to expect when I first read Sallis. And because the reading experience was unlike anything else I'd experienced before, at first, I wasn't sure how to formulate my response to the book in any way that made sense. I was used to picking up books that were about this murder or that police investigation, or this kidnapping, or that assassination plot. Books that had a goal. A defined focus. Stop the killer before he strikes again, catch the killer and bring peace to the family. Prevent global chaos and political instability. Lofty goals with high stakes.

If you bring those expectations to a Sallis book, you won't know what hit you. Unfortunately, I think a lot of people are confused as a result, and move on to more familiar territory again.

For me, I was fascinated. I recall saying that as a bass player, Sallis demonstrated he knew exactly which notes to leave out, which is at least as important as knowing which notes to put in a story.

Read the Turner books, read the Lew Griffin books, and what you will be reading are books that are about them. About Turner, about Griffin. Not about any one particular case or revelation or defining moment in a career. With the Griffin books, in particular, the character is revealed one piece at a time, the layers stripped away. This was my original review of The Long-Legged Fly.

Sitting down with James Sallis’s The Long-Legged Fly, I had no idea what to expect. I knew it was the start of a series and, in keeping with a recent trend, it was yet another PI novel to make its way to the top of my TBR pile.

From the Turner books, I was aware of Sallis’s unrivaled storytelling skills. Sallis has mastered the art of painting with words, and maximizing the effectiveness of each word chosen. A typical Sallis novel runs close to 60,000 words, and yet the words I’d use to describe the writing are lush, evocative, potent.

The Long-Legged Fly is no exception. We begin with Lew Griffin in 1964 and follow his life, in segments, until 1990. The two hundred pages highlight defining moments within Griffin’s journey, and some might argue some scenes are fictional excerpts from Griffin’s later life as a novelist. However you interpret the story, it’s impossible to deny the originality of Sallis’s approach.

When I pick up a crime fiction book, I generally have some idea of what to expect. The PI genre has its own tropes, yet has certain similarities to police procedurals. In most novels within these subgenres a crime is committed. A detective is either sent out (in the case of the police) or hired (in the case of the PI) to investigate. The story unfolds from there.

The Long-Legged Fly is not about the investigations. Anyone who picks up this book expecting to sink their teeth into a prolonged investigation centered on one case, with secrets to be unearthed as the investigation unfolds, will be disappointed. Sallis effectively turns the genre on its head, making the protagonist the mystery. The book is an investigation of him, his motives, his inability to form meaningful connections with the people around him, how he justifies his actions or lack of actions, how he lives.

I’ve recently read several PI novels, including The Price of Blood by Declan Hughes, Trigger City by Sean Chercover, The Good Son by Russel D. McLean and The Little Sleep by Paul Tremblay – all solid offerings by talented writers, up-and-comers who have debuted in the past few years. Following those books with The Long-Legged Fly made me wonder if part of Sallis’s secret, what makes him so distinctive, (forgive me Mr. Sallis) lies in his age. We now live in a hyper-psychoanalytic era, where we’re constantly scrutinizing behaviour and trying to uncover motives and work out issues. At this stage, I’m unwilling to make a blanket statement, but the more I’ve considered the works of Sallis in general, and The Long-Legged Fly in particular, I’ve noted my own tendency to scrutinize motivations within my own writing. Sallis avoids this type of self-indulgence, which perhaps speaks to the era he grew up in. Griffin may be self-absorbed much of the time, and is clearly self-destructive, but he isn’t on a mission to heal himself. When his father is dying and asking to see him, he does not rush to his bedside to have that one last moment where all things can be forgiven. You get the sense with Griffin that once a door’s been shut, it’s shut for good, and even if it’s been slammed or knocked off its hinges in the process, Griffin feels no obligation to go back, undo the damage and try to have a happier ending. He’s unable to sacrifice, or to change to sustain the few positive relationships he has, and appears content to move through the cycles of good and bad in his life. At the very least, he’s unwilling to invest a lot of energy in changing the outcome.





We finished the meal without talking. As Verne fathered up dishes, she said, “I’ll be going after I’ve done these, Lew.”

“But you just came back.”

She shook her head. ”A visit. That’s all you allow, Lew. Whether years or a couple of days, always only a visit to your life.” She began drawing water into the sink, squirting in soap. ”You’ve never asked me to stay with you, not even for a night.”

“But I always thought that should be up to you, V.”

“‘Up to you’. ’Whatever you want.’ How many times have I heard that all these years – when I heard anything at all? Don’t you want anything, Lew?” She turned from the sink, soapy water dripping onto the floor in front of her, hands curled back toward herself. She closed one hand and raised it, still dripping, to chest level. ”I could be anyone as far as you’re concerned Lew – any woman.” The hand opened. ”People are interchangeable for you, one face pretty much like any other, all the bodies warm and good to be by sometimes.”




Another exit from his life, and Griffin never allows himself so much as a sentence of doubt or regret, or consideration of what Verne has said to him.

When reviewing Salt River I said myself that as someone who played bass guitar, I felt Sallis had applied the skill of a musician to his writing; he understands that often, what you leave out is as important as what you put in. This holds true for The Long-Legged Fly as well. I’ve also said that the worst crime a book can commit is to be completely forgettable, and that’s a charge that can’t be leveled against Sallis. At the end of the book, despite the number of years covered within, Griffin remains a mystery, the motives behind his actions often unstated, his feelings unanalyzed much of the time. The character is himself the curiosity, and he lingers on the brain long after the last page, asking uneasy questions, presenting the possibility of realities that make most of us uncomfortable. Griffin may not be very moral, but he’s undeniably memorable. Perhaps the only bigger mystery is why Sallis is not wider known to the American reading audience.