Named But Not Defined byJeff Paris

The name of a genre is, at best, a useful descriptor. In the previous essay it is illustrated, I believe, that saying “horror is...” or “the genre of horror is...” is really the same thing. The name is the genre, and vice versa. But what is a genre? The name of a genre evolves in meaning and implication, because genres evolve, and with time move beyond the names that were coined for them. To say that horror is an emotion is to read its name far too literally, and to confuse a fair description with a true definition.
This leads to contradictions within Winter’s essay, and statements that become troublesome when extrapolated into the vast and varied body of literature that constitutes horror. This isn’t just a flaw in the essay in question, but is the same fault we can levy against publishers who try and squeeze every book into a certain spot on the shelves of book stores, or non genre-readers who have stereotypical or unfair perceptions. That is—the desire to define a genre. Whether with a pithy statement or through a persuasive book-length essay, to attempt to sum up genre, to pin it down, isolate what is unique about it and so demonstrate exactly what belongs in its borders or outside of them is more than problematic, it’s ultimately futile.
Futile, problematic—but very provocative. Just because you cannot pin a genre down, doesn’t mean you can’t say interesting things about it—in the context of refuting someone else’s opinions, or presenting your own. I’m going to use a similar conceit then, to explore how a genre’s name relates to its contents, and how it seems to resist definition at all.
First, let’s make a distinction between describing and discussing something, or defining it. A definition must provide criteria that, if not met, means a subject/object cannot be called by that name. If you say stories with spaceships or robots in them are science fiction, then you’re discussing one kind of science fiction story, but you aren’t excluding anything. If you say a science fiction story must have spaceships or robots, then you are attempting to provide criteria by which a story can be included or excluded from the genre, so you’re offering a definition. I find discussion about genre, even debate, very enjoyable. Definition... not so much.

Now let’s look at the term “science fiction” just as literally—pretend Winter had instead said that science fiction is not a genre, but fiction containing (to quote Webster’s) “knowledge or a system of knowledge covering general truths or the operation of general laws especially as obtained and tested through scientific method.” A reduction: “science fiction is fiction containing science.” Certainly not nearly as catchy as “horror is an emotion.” But such a statement does prompt an examination of what genre is, and how the namesake of science fiction—science—interacts with the actual substance—the fiction—of the genre.
Containing science implies that science fiction should not even be defined as fiction about science (itself an incomplete definition), but must be fiction that literally contains science. I’m not sure exactly how one would accomplish this—I suppose some research papers could make interesting reading if presented as fiction. And some authors certainly include the latest in contemporary science in their science fiction—which can add an exciting and rewarding undercurrent to a story. Others pause in their stories so a character, or the narrator’s voice, can explain a scientific principle: a device that can range from marvelous to tedious. But as often as science is crucial to a story, it is just a part of the setting, adding from and realism to an otherwise fantastic work.
Yes, fantastic. Many stories start with the first step of the scientific method—observing the world, and postulating a “what if?” Writing the story then becomes a process of fantasizing (rigorously or loosely) on the repercussions. What if tachyon particles could be used to send messages back in time? Tachyon particles are scientific, surely, but the moment I create a world in which this has happened I’m employing my imagination (a crucial tool for scientists and writers alike) to build upon my supposition. I’m no longer interested in proving whether the feat is possible, I’m interested in proceeding as if it is. At this point, I’ve taken off on a tangent from the scientific process from which I have no intention of returning. More importantly, the tachyons are not the story any more—the people in it, the plot I can create from this scientific conceit, are my chief concerns.