Eating my words, chewing them up, and spitting them back out

I’ve been thinking more about my genre shield post. I seem to have accidentally set off a tempest in a teapot. (Or perhaps a stewpot…)

What I didn’t mean to say was that genre would categorically prevent emotionally genuine writing. Unfortuunately, that’s what I more or less did say, out of shooting from the hip. The comment directly and indirectly stirred objections from both directions — the “write to entertain” folks and the “write to bone” folks. Further confusion was caused by the blade-and-bone metaphors, which seem to have meant very different things to different people.

Barth Anderson did a very good job of capturing the underlying fallacy in the whole discussion, where I had been pointing fingers at the writer, by saying:

The writer is not the one who is flayed open in a truly resonant story.