Literary Crime

 Having written two novels which have a crime at their hearts without being what I think of as crime novels, LITERARY CRIME: THE SEARCH FOR AN ELUSIVE GENRE from CrimeReads (they do an email newsletter) caught my eye, 

Defining genre is a notoriously dirty business, and no genre is murkier than literary fiction. Any attempt to pin down this slippery creature will naturally descend into mudslinging, no matter the intentions of the intrepid definer—the very name ‘literary fiction’ implies a smug, little jibe.

Whereas the ‘crime’ in ‘literary crime’, of course, is easy enough. A reader must find at least one crime within the book’s pages. And it’s likely that this reader will encounter said crime in one of the ways they have previously encountered fictional crimes—through mystery and suspense, through red herrings, jaded detectives, the uncovering of clues. Whether it begins with a dead body or a missing diamond, the reader knows, by the time they turn the penultimate page, that the perpetrator’s identity will have been revealed. Genre isn’t merely a collection of tropes or devices—it’s the shape of the reader’s expectations.

What does a reader expect from literary fiction? Attention paid to language, character, place, often at the price of plot. Beyond that, the reader is told to discard their expectations. This is the space for experimentation. But experimentation can’t be expected. The reader can expect to shed that expectation too.

Well, that is reassuring. The article contains examples so do go read it. 

This is literary crime at its essence: literary fiction which plays with crime, which explores it and exploits it to other ends; writing which dances at the edge of the genre, twirls and flips the tropes. And with the speed of the movement, perhaps the dancers blur together, perhaps we catch a glimpse of each figure, here and there, but can’t quite pick them apart in any one moment, and perhaps it doesn’t matter at all. Perhaps that’s the beauty of it.

sch