Only now that I see some of the pre-release feedback do I realise that what I have written in the Lyre is, in a certain fashion, historical fiction. This really shouldn’t surprise me at all, given that it is a book that is set firmly in the nineteenth century in Bulgaria and Paris: if not historical fiction, then what else could it be? Nevertheless, when I first saw the book described as ‘historical fiction’, I found myself thinking, ‘Oh, how strange—so that’s what it is…’
As a writer, genre is something I don’t think about very much at all. There are writers who have a clear sense of genre, and there is no doubt that this robust sense of how one’s work fits in to the marketplace can be useful, but I’m just not that kind of writer. I don’t tend to have a clear idea of what I am doing until I have done it. In the world of writing punditry, that clamour of advice for writers and would-be writers, there are those who claim that a clear sense of audience and genre are absolutely necessary, whilst there are those who claim that these things are not necessary at all; but I’m a bit sceptical of all these imperatives. I’m in favour of a kind of literary mixed ecology where people write to different ends and different purposes, where they go about writing in different ways. It’s a wide world, and there’s room for more than one approach.
But, to get back to historical fiction, I wonder if the reason that I was surprised that this is the genre the book has found its way into is that this wasn’t written as historical fiction in the realist mode, in that it doesn’t attempt to recreate an era or offer a window onto the past as it actually happened. Part of the reason for this is that the story draws not just on history but also on myth; and part of the reason is that of voice. One thing that I am always conscious of in writing is that what I am doing is telling a story. I am not providing a window onto reality, but I am spinning a yarn. And like any oral storyteller, I have the habit of occasionally breaking the apparently realist spell, if it becomes a little too realist, to remind the reader that this is, after all, an act of storytelling. ‘Oh, look…,’ I say at certain points, ‘this is a story’.
Some will no doubt disapprove; but I have always had a weakness for stories in which there is a clear storytelling voice that doesn’t quite belong to the story itself, that stands at a little remove from the story, that is not entirely involved, somewhat philosophical, a little bit wry, occasionally digressive. And whilst these things might seem to some like strange postmodern voodoo, I prefer to think of this approach as old-school storytelling in which the storyteller’s voice is a part of the story. Realism in storytelling is, after all, only a very recent invention (or, I would say, only a very recent myth…).