There is an ugly phrase in our world: a world redolent of prejudice and hate, a phrase implicit in the discrimination against dozens of minorities, a phrase of evil.

 

This phrase is… genre fiction.

 

Once upon a time there was a happy, free land of infinite size called “Fictionia” and all sorts of things lived there in equality, liberty and fraternity (1). Then along came some elitist types who started putting up fences. All these fences had an implicit right and wrong side to be on, and these elitist fencers (2) made sure that they fenced off what they thought of as the Heartland of Fictionia for themselves, and they called this new-fenced land Literature and forsooth did they build a huge castle  thereupon that they did (3) call Mainstream.

 

But for the land beyond Literature they fenced it ever smaller, and gave each new land a name, that they did uttereth in tones patornising, so that the denizens of each land spoketh not with one another(4) but did contend one with the other so that the supremacy of the Lords of Mainstream did remain unchallenged.

 

And even in those lands, or the Shires of Genre, as they term-ed them, yet more fences were built, so that each was subdivided over and over, so that the once-free folk of Fictionia would never rise up to overthrow the status quo.

 

Or something.

 

Of course, and as Michael Moorcock points out in his study Wizardry and Wild Romance, the first fiction was fantasy fiction: myths, legends, folky tales, and thereafter stories such as Amadis of Gaul and Morte d’Arthur. Magic, heroes, dragons. The fence-builders have reason to fear an uprising. After all, distance themselves as they might, this was all ours once…

 

There is, of the government of Fictionia, something of the cold war Eastern European police state, not least in that the rules can always be broken if you have enough sway. Also, that there are a multitude of unworkable divisions designed to keep an artificial order. Well, it’s true, man is a categorising creature by nature and labels are useful servants. They are bad masters(5). Nowhere is this more true than fiction, where “genre fiction” is generally used as a perjorative term by those who consider themselves above it (although people might admit to writing in a certain genre, for example, who would stand up and say, “Oh yes, I write genre fiction”), and individual genres seem to be part of some descending hierarchy of contempt.

 

But, like the borders of any police state, they can paint the line on the map wherever they want, but the geography is continuous, and knows not of human divisions.

 

Intermittently, as well as all the other stuff I’m supposed to be talking about, I will get around to putting an axe through a few fences, and I’ll start with the fences within fantasy itself.

 

Next: Well… by this point, would you honestly believe me if I told you?

 

(1)   or sorority if you prefer

 

(2)   In the bad, fence-building sense, not the dashing Zorro sense

 

(3)   Yea verily.

 

(4)   –eth

 

(5)   The original quote was machines, of course, but, honestly, can you think of any concept, thing or class of person where someone would happily say, “(such and such) are bad servants, but they’re good masters”. It’s like the “suffer fools gladly” routine that Eddie Izzard does. As far as stupid sayings go, it vies with “Many a mickle makes a muckle.” (6)

 

(6)   Of course, since the housing crash in the ‘80’s the mickle/muckle exchange rate has been noticeably unsteady, and these days you’re lucky if even several a mickle makes a muckle. (7)

 

(7)   Of course, soon we’ll all be using euromickles and it won’t matte