Literary Snobbery Needs to Go Extinct

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Literary Snobbery Needs to Go Extinct

I present to you a tale of two writing groups: They occur in different time periods, and have different goals, and don’t necessarily include the same people, but they end up on the same path and arrive at the same outcome.

Because this does involve real people in a world I inhabit, there will be a whole lot of parable-izing going on. But, the relevant points can be made without directly calling out any specific individuals.

Group A: The scene and purpose: Several years ago, a number of regular citizens who wanted to journal important life events, so that future generations would have the information and anctedotes to refer to, gathered to embark on this task. However, after a while, the group faltered, as its members felt they were struggling with making sure their drafted words were actually readable — not in a potential bestseller way, but simply, in a way that would deliver the proper intent and meaning of relating the stories they wished to share, in an engaging and comprehendible manner. (Professional writers call this “honing the craft.”) The self-appointed leader of the group declared this approach was not necessary, that there was plenty of validity to merely writing multiple journaling-style pieces on topics one found important to oneself. Parts of the group became disillusioned, or frankly bored, with this method, and attendance declined, and eventually the group disbanded entirely.

Group B: A few years afterwards, an independent writer who wished to belong to a space where they could receive feedback and brainstorming ideas or thoughts for their work in progress, approached a regional public library about hosting such a program (especially as this had been done in the past). Such a thing was arranged, and the call sent out to professional writers, hobbyist journalists, and armchair essayists alike. What assembled was a mix of all of the above.

What the mix seemed to have in common were two things — a disdain for formal instruction in the craft, and of any sort of writing that did not resemble or refer to reality as we know it.

Interestingly, one of the first to stop attending was the same person who wanted the group begun. This moth never did figure that one out, but wondered if it had something to do with the apparent lack of tolerance for non-realistic material (as this first was working on a young adult novel based heavily on mythology and ancient religion).

A new approach was suggested for sharing the results to writing prompts, and for giving feedback. Many more of the attendees vanished, never to be seen again. Through the meetings, this moth (who preferred to stay invisible but would find her voice when there was a thought worth sharing), felt giving this method a chance could be valuable in honing her own skills, and that of the few others who remained.

However, that all changed one day when a comment was made that the fantasy genre, as a whole, is not convincing, and does not draw readers in enough to be compelling reading.

When you consider that this moth has spent her entire life being compelled, convinced, and drawn to her purpose by fantasy media, to hear such a blatantly prejudiced remark, right in front of her as well — when it says right on her resume as card-carrying-author, “cozy fantasy novelist” — well, that was the moment the moth decided to leave Group B.

Okay, less parable-izing now. (Honestly, talking about myself in the third person just feels strange.)

Anyway, that one comment — not personally aimed, not intended to cause harm — still gave me intense imposter syndrome for days. It hurt, the idea that something I love so much could cause that level of eye roll and disparaging tone. Are there genres I feel like that about? Of course! Do I say it so bluntly in mixed company? God, no! Maybe I’m just built with empathy, or maybe it’s because I like a lot of “niche” subjects, but I naturally have learned not to immediately crap on somebody else’s favorite thing. I know how to read the room, as it were. Apparently, this is not a regular practice for other people.

Also, it was…kind of astounding to me, that, in the year 2025, after the intense popularity of series like Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Twilight, Lord of the Rings, and Game of Thrones, that literary snobbery — such as “fantasy isn’t a worthy genre” — still exists at all.

The worst part of the whole experience was the fact that I could tell no amount of my explaining, defending, debating, or begging would get the group to even give the topic a fair shot. For whatever reason, the consensus seemed to have been reached before I ever arrived on the scene, that fantasy is silly, or dumb, or just sucks. And, man, if that isn’t discouragement bottled up and then shaken in your face.

So, what did I do about it?

Well, at first, I sulked, and grouched, and wanted to cry.

Then I took a deep breath, brought an author copy of my latest paperback release (yes, these two things coincided) down to the library for the staff to catalogue it. Because all of my publications to date have been entered into the library system. And occasionally, they even get checked out.

And when I gave that fresh new copy to the senior librarian (who I used to work with), and her face lit up with genuine delight at my latest accomplishment, that reminded me why I do this.

For the people who respond like that. Not those who…don’t.

But all of this leads me to the inevitable question: What makes some readers think fantasy is a lesser form of literature?

I’m aware that the idea of accepting mythical creatures, invented cultural and spiritual paths, and that, no, it isn’t a typo, it is the protagonist’s name, can be too much for some folks. And, as long as they’re respectful about expressing that preference, I won’t be insulted by it.

Where they lose me is the notion that, just because it has centaurs and mermaids or Bigfoot and Nessie, elves and magic being real and lots of Latin, such a book is, somehow, of lesser literary quality than, for example, Sherlock Holmes, or Ann Patchett, or one of those police procedural series where each title includes a dad-joke sort of pun.

Is it simply the way American culture forces us to “give up childish things” when we reach a certain age? (But if so, how would that explain why romantsy and sci-fi and magical realism are bestselling adult categories?)

No, I think it comes down to the old-fashioned, but evidently still pervasive, concept that anything we can’t see, touch, interact with, or scientifically research is not worth devoting our brainpower or emotions to.

And that I just find laughable.

Every single animal, plant, and location on this planet was once unknown to particular peoples or institutes. Just because we claim something doesn’t exist, in fact, does not mean it actually isn’t real. (The elephant being an absolute case in point.) We didn’t understand gravity or how thunderstorms work for centuries; our lack of knowledge never meant these things weren’t happening around us all the time.

One of the exact reasons I love fantasy is the air of mystery, the thrill of discovery, and the joy of wonder suspending your disbelief and just going with it brings.

We have learned so much about this world around us and how it works that…there isn’t so much to be amazed about in the everyday anymore.

And not only does that sound downright dull as dishwater, it makes me sad.

I want to be able to go to a place where not everything has been discovered, even if only for an hour before bed.

I want to believe there’s more out there than what I experience week after week.

If that means I’m somehow immature or not a “proper” reader, then, screw it — I’ll wear that badge with pride.

And I will not stop writing fantasy, probably not ever.

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Published on April 29, 2025 13:09

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