Writers Ask: Is my work “literary” enough?

Honestly y’all, is there a question more tender in the writer world than this one?

I have asked myself this question often. I have no scientific data to support this but I would guess it’s a question a lot of non-MFA writers ask themselves when writing in the literary space. Shit, it’s probably a question any writer in the literary space asks themselves, even if they’ve got the MFA or won prestigious awards.

It’s a big one. Let’s talk.

What does “literary” even mean?

There is a lot to unpack with this question because “literary” is a loaded term. What is implied is that “literary” simply means “good.” High craft. Talented and sharp writing. Art. And since we’re dealing with art, we are, of course, dealing with nuanced ideas of what makes great art. Which, of course, begs the question: who gets to decide what is and is not good art?

Publishing loves a good label because good labels make for good sales expectations. It’s easy to categorize a thriller, romance, western, etc. Those genres have expectations, tropes, and necessary themes in order to satisfy the expectant reader. When the publisher goes to market these books, the readers know exactly what to expect.

But when you have a manuscript outside of genre expectations, that’s where all the trouble comes in. Suddenly, no one is sure what to call the work; if it has ghosts in it, is it only horror? Not necessarily. If there are aliens, is it only sci-fi/fantasy? Nope. So we start using catch-all phrases, like “literary horror,” “upmarket,” “speculative,” “contemporary,” etc. In the absence of clear genre expectations, there’s a question then — how do we know if the work will satisfy reader expectations? Essentially, how can the publisher be sure that the book will be a good purchase, especially if it’s a new, unknown author?

We always forget that publishing is a business.

I contend that the hand-wringing over what constitutes “literary” versus what does not is a false dichotomy created by the publishing industry itself. (Gasp!)

The big, fat secret here is this: A book is considered “literary” if the publisher decides to market it that way. That’s right, I said it.

“Literary” is a lie.

Here’s a spicy tidbit that boss-ass B Jane Friedman said at a conference I attended: When contemporary, realistic novels by male writers go on submission to publishers, their work is usually labeled “literary.” When those same types of novels by women go on submission, their work is suddenly labeled “upmarket.”

Wait a minute, what happened? Why is one thing literary and another thing upmarket?

Remember how I said publishers love labels because labels make for more predictable sales expectations? Books that don’t neatly fit into a known genre category like a straight-up western, thriller, or romance start running into labeling problems. The label becomes less fact and more nuance. A vibe. Connotations and implications. In other words, coded language. And coded language always comes with an ugly backstory.

A novel described as “upmarket” implies a more “readable” literary novel, something primed to appeal to the commercial masses while also respecting the tastes and expectations of the more discerning readers. A novel described solely as “literary” implies a challenge to the reader, a dare to read it and get it because the writer is undeniably talented. It’s a lot easier to sell an unknown female writer’s work as upmarket as it puts the publishing house at ease that there is commercial appeal as well as talent. It’s a lot more believable to claim the talent of an unknown male writer because why? If you answered “the patriarchy,” you get a gold star.

Here’s some more examples of coded labels in publishing: domestic fiction, women’s fiction/chick lit, inspirational fiction, and the cringe-iest of all, urban fiction.

(Side note, I once worked in a library with both a Fiction section and an Urban Fiction section. Watching people try to figure out where the hell Toni Morrison or James Baldwin was or should be shelved was a shamefully hilarious exercise in white fragility and supremacy.)

But going back to these nuanced labels like upmarket, contemporary, speculative, etc. Who uses these labels? It’s not readers. Really, where would you guess is the upmarket book section of the bookstore or library? In the fiction section with the rest of the fiction books.

The people who use these labels are the people who work in the publishing industry—agents, editors, and the writers trying to hook them. I.e., people trying to sell the book to people who can make them money.

The goal of a for-profit business (reminder: publishing is a for-profit business) is to make the most money. The most money to be made lies in the hands of the most power. How a non-genre book is labeled when it is being sold has everything to do with the power dynamics and almost nothing to do with what the work actually is. Agents and editors who are trying to convince the powers in place to buy your manuscript so everyone can get a big pay out are going to use terms that remind the powers that be of money. Commercial, page-turning, bestseller material, book club pick… in other words, upmarket. When it’s awards season, these agents and editors (and now publishers) will take that same book and suddenly begin selling it as brilliant, wickedly talented, sparkling, a great American novel, a story of our times… in other words, literary. (Take, for an excellent example, the debacle of American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins.)

What’s in a name anyway? A rose may be a rose, but money is money.

But that still leaves the issue of the question itself. So let’s tackle that.

Is my work “literary” enough"? = Is my work good enough?

That’s the question you’re asking without actually asking: is my work good enough? Will it hold up? Will someone read it cover to cover, hug it to their chest when they’re finished, and be a different person afterward?

Maybe yes and maybe no. But the writer can’t and shouldn’t control how their work is received by readers. All the writer can do is write a book that is true to their voice, their values, and their community. Those are the books that sparkle.

Let go of the idea of literary. Who gives a fuck about literary? Sit down and write a good book. Then do it again and again and again.

And if you need some encouragement, let me be your Jonathan Van Ness-styled worthiness angel and say:

Now go on with your bad self,

Lisa

If you have a question you would like featured on Writers Ask, email me at lisa@allthingswords.com.)