That is to say, it's just as easy to write a shitty book about angst-filled New Yorkers as it is to write a shitty book about elves, and I'm tired of people who pretend otherwise.
Well, okay, the elf thing is kinda played. But The Snow Queen is not innately a less serious book than The Secret History because de Vinge has space ships and Tartt only has incest and freezing in garrets. Not is A Widow For One Year innately a better book than Light because Irving only has endless passages on undergarments, while Harrison has a preponderance of ruched oyster silk and space ships.
In fact, A Widow For One Year was rather bad. For reasons having a lot to do with the undergarments, if you ask me.
Litfic is just another genre. One that tends to get taken more seriously than the others, but frankly, one with an equal representation on the Great Shitheap Of Literature.
That is all.
I'm a Genre Pirate! I can write anything I like! Litfic! Mysteries! Magic Realism! Cyberpunk! High Fantasy! Slipstream! Historical Fiction! I refuse to be classified! Arrrrr! Swing the critics from the yardarm! Avast, me maties!
In fact, I can do all of the above at once. But it takes an 800 page novel to do it.
Will cracked and gave me 250 words this afternoon. But they were good words: they had The Thing, as I have decided to call it.
I'm about to go put him on the rack and see if I can get a little more out of him.