I Changed Genres And Almost Lost It All

THE PRICE OF CREATIVE FREEDOM

‘There is only one genre in fiction, the genre is called book,’ says the novelist Matt Haig. Genre, according to the Cambridge Dictionary, is ‘a style or category, especially in the arts, that involves a particular set of characteristics.’

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

If you’d asked me about genre when I was a young author, I’d have agreed with Haig. Indeed, I was much like the crime writer, Ian Rankin, who said he didn’t even realise he was writing crime fiction when he wrote his first Rebus book, Knots and Crosses. Little did I know back then that my lack of awareness about genre was going to cost me so dearly. This is my somewhat sorry story—and how genre affects us all.

My first two novels, Theory of Mind and Angel Bird, were loosely literary fiction, which allowed me to bring in big ideas about science and philosophy, and combine them with thriller elements. Theory of Mind, while partly being a mediation on the nature of consciousness, featured murderous chimpanzees, a serial misogynist and a child serial killer. It was not marketed as a thriller (it was even shortlisted for a romance prize!), and so I was blithely unaware of any restrictions on me as a writer. Fast-forward ten years later, when I received another two-book deal for my third novel, this time with the publisher, John Murray.

The novel was called The Naked Name of Love and has now been republished with my original title, The Priest and the Lily. It’s an epic historical saga about a Jesuit priest plant hunter who travels to Outer Mongolia in 1859 and falls in love with a Mongolian tribeswomen. It had taken me so long to write this book and find a publisher that I’d written another novel in the meantime. This one was crime fiction and was partly set in the present day, partly at the turn of the 1900s.

I had a year to write the second book for John Murray, so I took my time delivering book two. I didn’t want my editor to think I’d just dashed it off, when in reality, it had also taken me a few years to write. To my surprise, when I handed the manuscript in, it was rejected almost immediately.

‘It’s not historical fiction,’ my editor said crisply.

‘But I’m not a historical fiction writer,’ I said. ‘I just happened to write a novel that was set in the past.’

‘You are now,’ she said.

I ran back to my agent, who had no sympathy. I cited Margaret Atwood in my defence, who writes science fiction (not that she calls it science fiction), historical, and literary fiction.

‘You’re not Margaret Atwood,’ he said.

My agent filled me in on the brutal reality. Authors’ contracts all have a particular word in them: ‘accept’. If the publisher didn’t accept my manuscript (which they didn’t), and I didn’t deliver one in the correct genre (historical fiction) that they did accept, I’d have to return my advance and forfeit the rest of the money due to me.

And so, having frittered away almost a year when I should have been writing a book, I was now behind schedule and had, inadvertently, severely annoyed my editor. I did write a second work of historical fiction, Sugar Island, set at the turn of the American Civil War, which I was proud of, but the whole episode was painful and left me feeling humiliated. Further, it undermined my relationship with my editor, as well as with my agent, as I thought he might have, you know, told me this would happen if I ignored genre.

I firmly believe that writers should be able to write whatever they like and in whatever genre they want, but what I’ve learned is this. If you’re a big name—a famous and bestselling author—you can indeed write what you like and in whatever genre you want. Think of J.K. Rowling who, after finishing with Harry Potter, turned to crime fiction, writing under the pseudonym, Robert Galbraith. She sold a scant handful of copies until someone leaked her name to the press. Now there are seven Robert Galbraith books, a film deal, and millions of copies have sold worldwide.

From a publisher’s point of view, genre is a useful way of categorising and marketing an author. Generally, publishers pay for a book an author has already written, and offer an advance on a book, or multiple books, that the author will write. They’re investing in the author and the author’s future work. They’ve spent time and money marketing the author within a genre, building their brand, talking to the press, book bloggers, readers, book sellers and literary festivals, about the author as a crime fiction or a fantasy writer, say. They want a return on their money. So, unless they have a name that will sell books—any book—they want more of the same but slightly different. And arguably, even big names who write commercial fiction, might find it hard to publish in a different genre. Would publishers support Lee Child writing fantasy? James Patterson delivering literary fiction?

As for readers, they’ve also invested in an author, paying for their book, or spending time seeking out a copy in the library, and then reading the book. If they liked the writing and the story, they too will want more of the same but different. Take Helen MacDonald, for instance. Writer, poet and naturalist, they wrote a bestselling memoir, H is for Hawk, a powerful meditation on grief and taming a wild goshawk. It’s currently being made into a movie starring Claire Foy. I adored this book. The story is heartbreaking, the prose exquisite. If MacDonald had written another nature memoir, I’d have rushed out and bought it immediately. As it is, I’ve hesitated: MacDonald pivoted dramatically, writing Prophet next, a work of dystopian science fiction, co-written with Sin Blaché. The pair even wrote some of it on Twitter/X.

So what does this mean for writers? That we have to stay in our lanes, freighted as we are with publishers and readers expectations? That we can’t ‘accidentally’ write crime fiction or ‘happen’ to pen a work of historical fiction? That we have to meticulously plan out our careers in advance as if we’re painting by numbers?

I don’t like rules. I don’t like people telling me what to do or feeling that I’m in the literary equivalent of a corset, struggling to breathe as my ribs constrict. But I’ve come to think of genre as a set of expectations and conventions and that it’s worth finding out what they are. Meeting an expectation can satisfy a reader without them even realising they had a need.

Take crime fiction. This is the broadest genre of all, encompassing everything from cosy crime to block-busting thrillers, from domestic noir to suspenseful drama. But as American novelist Larry Beinhard says, ‘A crime novel without violence is like smoking pot without inhaling, sex without orgasm, or a hug without a squeeze.’ Arguably, you don’t always have to have violence or a murder, but the threat of it, at least, needs to be there.

Or take romance: as readers, we expect love, often a love triangle, trials and tribulations and maybe a kiss!

Click image to read this captivating family saga by Kern Carter.

If you take the time to find out the expectations and conventions within a genre, you, as a writer can bend, flex, innovate and improvise. Who falls in love, with whom and what happens can all be played around with, leading to compelling and innovative takes on the romance genre, such as the LGBTQ+ romance Heartstopper by Alice Oseman, and Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. In crime fiction, for instance, we have Nutshell by Ian McEwan—a foetus narrates the story of his own father’s murder from within the womb; The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward is a serial killer thriller told by a cat.

And for the writer, there is something wonderfully liberating about this: knowing what readers will love about your work and gifting it to them, yet in such a way that you are also being breathtakingly original. As T.S. Eliot said, ‘When forced to work within a strict framework, the imagination is taxed to its utmost—and will produce its richest ideas. Given total freedom, the work is likely to sprawl.’

Publishers, readers—and even writers—are often looking for what is new and exciting. Being able to innovate within genre is one way to deliver this; creating a cross-genre book is another. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, while being a romance (Zevin does’t agree), is also literary fiction and in the coming-of-age genre. Both the TV dramas, Carnival Row and The Expanse, are classic detective fiction, blended with fantasy and historical fiction in the former, and science fiction—specifically space opera—combined with political thriller in the latter.

The trick is to know what the expectations of each genre are and to deliver them in an innovative way. If the detectives in those two series didn’t attempt to solve crimes—indeed, if there were no crime or no imminent crime, we, as viewers, would be unhappy. We might not realise what we were missing, but we’d feel that something didn’t quite stack up.

So how do we, as writers, live with this contradiction? How do we square the idea that we have carte blanche to write anything, in any style, form and category, whilst understanding that when we are readers, we often want a writer we love to deliver more of what we have loved?

For me, it comes down to consequences. There is always a choice, no matter what the situation, but there is also always a consequence attached to that choice. Suppose you want to write an anti-novel, a work that is deeply experimental, or you want to write literary fiction? Well, absolutely. Go for it. The consequence though, is that within the experimental, or within the literary fiction category, it is much harder to make money. It’s hard to get an agent, a publisher, an advance, to sell copies. The consequence of writing exactly what you want is that you may well be highly fulfilled but you will also be poor; you may need to accept that your writing has to be funded by another income stream.

The exception to this, of course, is if you win a major prize. The Irish writer, Anne Enright, sold barely 3,000 copies of The Gathering, a family saga exploring suicide, loss and childhood sexual abuse. When she won the Man Booker prize in 2007, her publishers expected to see a fifteen-fold increase in sales. The previous year’s winner, Kiran Desai, had sold just 2,000 copies of her book, The Inheritance of Loss. Even making the shortlist led to her selling 500 copies a week.

Of course, the odds of this happening are quite long. Enright was given odds of 12-1 to win and she was already fortunate in that, in spite of the paucity of her sales, she had a long-standing and supportive Irish publisher. Her husband bet a grand on her.

If you’re a published author, as I was, and you want to switch genres or write a cross-genre book—again, go for it. The choice is yours. Your publisher would need to agree (and arguably your agent too—my agent once pulled a deal for a book I’d been working on for several months because the advance wasn’t high enough, in his opinion). If your publisher doesn’t agree, and you have signed up to a two-book or a multi-book deal, you still have a choice. The consequence will be that you’ll have to tear up the contract and return your advance money.

I square the circle in this way: I want to write commercial, popular fiction, be published and make money. However, I accept that I’m never going to be a global bestseller because I’m not willing to alter my writing style enough to make my writing accessible to everyone. As Lee Child points out, he is one of the most popular writers in the world because anyone can read his books; in fact, many of the people who read his books don’t generally read books.

I’ve recently been offered a commission by a small independent publisher to write a collection of dark, speculative fiction thrillers. I’m aware this means I’ll have a smaller audience and thus a smaller advance. So the consequence of my choice is that I will be happy.

But probably quite poor.