Why the urban fantasy genre isn’t dead*

 *This is not a comment from an author to an agent but from an avid reader (roughly 3-4 books a week) to the book industry as a whole, even though I won’t deny that the writer in me would agree with the sentiment.

Take a naive but capable young woman, add a sexy, brooding and decidedly mysterious vampire who inevitably falls in love with her, an equally hot baddie, sprinkle on obstacles (such as the world in peril) to overcome, and the result is YA (young adult).

Take a tough-as-nails woman who can hold her own in a fight (with or without guns), add a sexy, brooding and decidedly mysterious vampire who inevitably falls in love with her, an equally hot baddie, sprinkle on obstacles (such as grisly murders) to overcome, and the result is urban fantasy.

The argument has been made that the market is flooded with plot concepts which follow these or similar blueprints. While YA still seems to be able to scrape by, mainly due to the voracity of faithful young readers, the urban fantasy genre has come into disrepute lately. Are older readers really that much more discerning and demanding than their younger counterparts? And are agents and publishers right to turn their back on this genre?

I think not. And in support I would like to put forward two thoughts for you to chew on.

First, just because it’s writing-by-numbers doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy it. After all, this is exactly why I follow heroines like Jaz Parks, Mercy Thompson and the many others so fervently from one book in the series to the next. If I like the set-up, enjoy the humor and find the plot at least halfway engaging, I’m satisfied.

I admit I’ve never been one to look to books as a means of making me ponder the greater issues in life. No, I can do that all by myself, without any prodding (speak: pontificating) by authors or film directors, thank you very much. What I need is a few hours of complete escapism.

Second, even if the above outline were right on the money – and let’s be fair, most plots offer ample variation on these themes or are indeed entirely different –, only shallow people would consider it as indicative of the originality of the book as a whole. A good story is more than its most basic ingredients. And for this I would like to reference my own work, or, to put it bluntly, justify my own work. My main character Ivy is a private detective of sorts, and she is helped out by a vampire. There are some grisly murders, too. Still, these items are merely the vehicle I use to drive the plot home.

My “mythology” is different from that of other writers. In addition, I have deliberately used certain stereotypes and turned them on their head. My vampire is neither broody nor mysterious. Neither is he the love interest. And Ivy isn’t your typical shoot-first, ask-later protagonist either. Her journey from A to B and then to C and D is what makes it different. Humor, fallacies and red herrings are only three of the sign posts that litter the way.

Isn’t it true that the real measure of the experience can only be gathered from actually reading the book?

Agents and publishers have to sift through queries and first chapters ad nauseum, and after a while these things can seem kind of samey. But here’s a thought. The key question is not whether the story is original, but whether it's engaging. And this is more to do with the author and her or his writing than with the basic plot ingredients.

Readers certainly haven’t had enough of what’s out there. I’m constantly looking for new serialized adventures (suggestions welcome). So my plea to agents is this: don’t give up on a book simply because the query doesn’t promise a never-before-seen concept. Until you’ve developed a feel for an author, please keep an open mind.

Total Linguistic Failure (TLF)

Sometimes it’s tough to reconcile writing with my day job. I’m a patent translator by trade, specializing in optics and nuclear engineering, and finding the right words is my bread and butter.

The one thing you should know about patents is that they are entirely devoid of style. In fact, I regularly come across, and produce, terms like “control-rod guide tube actuating mechanism arm” and “loop-knittedly” (I kid you not). As with anything, you get used to it, though. In fact, it makes work easier, not having to strain to think of the most aesthetically pleasing phrase.

Back at home, I flick the switch and allow the creative juices to flow once more. Except, now and again, the switch jams, and stringing sentences together becomes a task seemingly beyond my capabilities. Suddenly, incoherent thoughts fumble for a concrete term in the mush of vocabulary, groping for something, anything, I can use to convey my idea. Instead of describing suspense in terms of how my MC experiences it, I resort to stylistically challenged sentences like “she was scared out of her mind”. The patent-way of writing, where direct and simple statements are the ideal.

Those moments are what I call total linguistic failure (TLF). This “fire bad, flower pretty” way of writing destroys all confidence concerning any talent I may possess. Don’t get me wrong. Pulitzer-worthy I’m not by any stretch. But neither am I a complete hack (I hope).

A couple of months ago a weird thing happened. A friend confided in me that she, too, experienced bouts of TLF. I was intrigued. Could this be an affliction that affected more people than I’d thought? Entirely unrelated to my job? If so, what was the government doing about it?

I did some research, called a few more friends, checked out some blogs. The results shocked me. Credible evidence suggested this was indeed a common disorder; as many as seven in ten writers suffer from it at one point or another. And apparently there are no help lines, no charities set up to assist the victims. Would I have to give up writing altogether?

No, I’d come too far to simply coil up and submit.

I’m now seeing a team of psychiatrists once or twice a week. Their names are Ben & Jerry’s, and they taste creamy and sweet, and they are a lot nuttier than I am. Still, their influence on my life has been immeasurable.

Now, each time TLF returns, I clench my fist, set my jaw and work my way through the rough spells. It’s the equivalent to flipping the bird at TLF. Light always follows darkness, and soon enough I’m back on form. My new coping mechanism has done wonders for my word count. What’s more, all lingering signs of TLF can be removed at the editing stage.

So, if you, too, are familiar with TLF, you no longer have to suffer in silence. If caught early, I believe it is entirely treatable. Feel free to share any tips for dealing with this problem in the comments section.