If you believe any number of critics, readers, pundits and scribes, the people who practice the craft in which I am now engaged (crime and mystery fiction) toil in a literary ghetto. I am, well, mystified as to why some folks feel this way. I’ve always believed that all fiction should at least aspire to be literary, and I’ve never understood why some types of books are dismissed as unworthy of recognition to whatever rarefied level the word “literary” signifies.
As far as I understand it, the problem lies in the conventions that so-called genre fiction requires — specifically, plots. An attitude prevails that plots are merely contrivance and, as such, are beneath the dignity of whatever it is that serious writers are trying to accomplish. But, when you get right down to it, all fiction is essentially contrivance.
At the risk of sounding like a philistine, I happen to like plots. I like them very much. Plots are stories, and stories are the time-honored way in which human beings make sense of the world. In fact, after reading so-called “literary” novels, I often have the feeling that I’ve eaten a meal that’s one course short. Wonderful prose and all that, but …. it would have been a lot better if it had a stronger storyline.
Not to mention that action can reveal a lot about character, or help a character grow. And action, properly described, can be a lot of fun for the reader.
