Against Genre
fragments on an idea (or two)
Consider for a moment the word “hybrid” derived from the Latin hybrida meaning mongrel, a child the product of high and low class, a sign of mixed breeding. Degenerate. To be of mixed origin or composition, in biology, an organism simply the offspring of two different species; in sociology, cause for walls: the racially segregated, religiously discriminated, sexually ostracized.
On The Transformative Power Of Hybrid Form, Matthew Hittinger
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In the beginning, so speak, was the word. The phrase. The sentence. The image. The idea. The metaphor. Pencil on paper, fingers typing on a keyboard, a voice speaking into a microphone. Thoughts and images floating in the brain in a grand brainstorm daydream movie. Something out of nothing. Some thing.
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For the sake of argument, let’s says genre is a construction created primarily by the academy, the publishing industry, the library system, and bookstores (in particular, and most recently, the big chains). Sound like a conspiracy theory? Try walking into a Barnes & Noble and ask after the poetry section. Nine times out of 10 the clerk either doesn’t know off-hand—in their defense, it gets moved a lot—or he or she points into a corner and says, “Bottom shelf. The work must be put somewhere. Must be called something, labeled, sold, catalogued, critiqued and analyzed, shelved and placed in a section.
And let’s say, also for the sake of argument, that all of the above is post-production. After the fact. Flotsam in the river of commodity. That, in production, in the creation of the work, especially in the early stages, there is no such thing as genre. I posit this because even if you perceive your work as being in one particular mode or form—as in, I am most definitely writing a poem here—you are most likely working with a variety of forms (or ghost forms). Staying with poetry…some poems are narrative lyrics, other lyric narratives. Many lineated poems quietly tug on the poet’s sleeve and ask to be a block of prose. Or you’re using words to re-create a photograph. Or the words might be best uttered on stage by an actor, or a voice-over in a film. Really, in the heat of the moment, how do you know? And why should you?
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I am against genre and for hybridity. Just as I am against homogeneity and for intersectionality. In the early stages of composition, it’s almost always better for the artist to be multitudinous—open, fluid, adventurous, associative.
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Even when focused in on a single idea or theme or scene, the writer functions as an omnidirectional mic picking up signals from all around; and then must find ways to bring these transmissions down into the work and to use them to fashion the artifact. Or, at least, this is what I strive for when I am working seriously on a piece. As a working artist and writer, my goal is to wake the reader up. To bring out something new (or to have it seen differently), to entertain, make you think, piss you off. As the work gets honed, and as I figure out where the work might end up or for which audience I’m writing, I may find myself taking genre into consideration (though I’d argue that it’s never entirely necessary to do so). Hmmm, I think, rubbing my chin, This would make a great New York Times opinion piece. No harm in that, right? A writer can dream.
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Here’s a brilliant put down: “I feel for all you white poets out there stuck between Southern Rock and a shard of non-place.” Craig Santos Perez
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I’ve found that it’s best not to worry too much about genre when starting a work, and not to worry even in the act of re-approaching a work. It shouldn’t be a bad thing to say aloud to the blank wall, “Damn this is a poem, a journal entry, a laundry list and a manifesto.” Nor should it be a deterrent to further investigations. Better to ask what the work is doing and what it needs in order to thrive. (You can ask what it is, sure, of course, but the question leans more spiritual than literal.)
Creativity is omnidirectional, as well. It draws from high and low, left and right, inside and out; from waking life and dream, truth and lie; from stories and thoughts as well as notions and insights. Not only that, but creativity, by nature is multi-cultural discourse. It can’t help but be, and we can’t help but being so ourselves if we are being truly creative. Think Whitman’s multitudes. Think two-way street. Think walking a mile in…
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Though, for an artist or a writer, creativity is always and ever at the service of craft. “You can’t improvise on nothing,” as jazz bassist Charlie Mingus once spat. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. What came before. The rules and how to break them. You read, you write and rewrite, you study from masters, you work in a circle of writers, you send your work out. Rinse, wash, repeat. “You do what you must do, and you do it well.” (Dylan said that.)
You shouldn’t feel you have to draw from only one well or that you must assign only one genre to your work. Learn the different modes, the different forms. Be anxious inside tradition. Beg, rob and steal. Mix and match. Learn from your mistakes. Make up brand-new mistakes. (Miles Davis: “If you make a mistake, repeat it.”) But, by all means, resist the urge to typecast your work too early as this or that. Why not encourage it to be many things at once?!
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My latest projects? “A memoir in poems.” “A memoir in essays.” And: “A collage novel in 11 chapbooks.” Which could also be characterized as “a serialized box-set edition.” In terms of publishing, the first two labels might be strong moves (helping the potential reader get a sense of the mode of the book); whereas the last two phrases, though accurate descriptions of what I am doing, are surely marketing nightmares. But do I care? The inmates are running the bookstore!
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I like hybrid forms in that they create third spaces, unclassifiable categories, and if you consider yourself “other” for whatever reason—be it skin color, gender, sexuality, or what have you—these “new” forms are sometimes the only forms that can fully capture your experience and identity as someone orbiting the mainstream.
On The Transformative Power Of Hybrid Form, Matthew Hittinger