What is the difference, you may wonder, between literary writing and genre writing? Or, you may wonder, how do I ensure that when I look for an agent, or when I submit to literary magazines, that my work is recognized as literary rather than genre?

The answer is in the prose. If you’re writing genre fiction, the most important thing is to have a plot that follows the conventions of the genre. If you’re writing literary fiction, the most important thing is to have a distinct voice. And so long as you achieve this distinct literary voice, the substance of your story will not matter at all. In fact, substance is discouraged. A compelling story might distract the reader from the most important thing, which is the voice.

You may think a distinct voice would be difficult to discover. But in literary fiction, it is much more important to seem distinct than to be distinct. There are a few simple devices you can use in your prose—a formula—for adopting this seemingly distinct voice.

1. Use lots of sentence fragments to create emphasis and a poetic feeling.

“The incredible length of the journey stunned her. Discouraged her. Left her defeated.”

The fragment has been an acceptable device since before the time of Shakespeare. But we are living now in the golden age of the fragment. Today, fragments add gravitas and seriousness to the sentiment expressed. Sometimes, a period can function like a comma, and signal to the reader that you are quirky, you are unconcerned with the rules, and you have an MFA.

“She picks the croissant up from the table. Takes a bite.”

Don’t worry. This device can’t be overused.

2. Paired adjectives in apposition:

“The grave stared back at him, marble-hard and undeniable.”

This device, quirky and unnecessary, is easy to employ. See what I just did there? I could have said, “This quirky, unnecessary device is easy to employ.” But that’s boring. It’s too close to the way a person would speak in real life. Where’s the voice?

Next time you want to use adjectives, instead of placing them in front of the noun, place them behind the noun in a phrase set off by commas. You’ll get published in no time.  

3. Asyndeton

The name might be unfamiliar, but the device is everywhere. Asyndeton is a device whereby the author connects two clauses with a comma rather than a conjunction, like so:

“She glides through the lilies, glances at me.”

We can’t just say, “She glides through the lilies and glances at me.” No voice! Besides, a reader can only see so many uses of the word “and” before she gets bored. Better to save that conjunction for paired adjectives in apposition. Connect clauses with commas instead. Or, for bonus fragment points, use periods:

“She glides through the lilies. Glances at me.”

Now we’re cooking, ready to publish.

4. Avoid Commonplace Verbs

Verbs activate sentences. There is a special delight when we see a writer find that apt, surprising verb:

“Her lipstick rusted the Styrofoam cup,” for example.

Maybe, instead of writing, you should “gash the page with feeling.” Instead of walking down stairs, you should “float” or “jackknife” down them. What do those sentences mean? Do I risk being overwrought or nonsensical?

Maybe—but we’re writing literary fiction. Better to be overwrought than to settle for a pedestrian verb like “walk.”

Bonus points for using a noun as a verb: “She runway-models through the lilies. Glances at me.”

5. Drop Subjects in Dialogue.

This is cousin to the rule about fragments. It’s important that your characters have distinct voices, too. That means no complete sentences. Subject dropping is a great way to make your characters’ voices unique, especially when all your characters do it. It’s simple. Just drop the subject of the second sentence a character says.

“She told me I could trust you. Told me you’d help me.”

It seems to me that few people in real life speak like this, but many people in movies do. Somehow, this is also literary.

6. The Extra Clause

I don’t know the grammatical term for this device, but I can explain and demonstrate it. Through use of the word “that” or “it,” you add an extra clause to a sentence. Let’s take a boring sentence like, “She wanted to believe in the life-changing power of beauty.” How can we shine up this dishwater-dull sentence? How about an extra clause:

“She wanted to believe in beauty, the life-changing power of it.”

Or:

“She wanted to believe in beauty, that it could change lives.”

You also don’t have to stop at one extra clause. You can latch them onto your sentence one after the other like train cars:

“She wanted to believe in beauty, that it could change lives, that it could last forever, that the world would die without it.”

Now let’s put our workhorse, the fragment, in the traces of this sentence:

“She wanted to believe in beauty. That it could change lives. That it could last forever. That the world would die without it.”

Experiment with extra clauses and fragments until you strike that perfect tone:

“She wanted to believe in beauty, that it could change lives, that it could last forever. That the world would die without it.” Voila.

CONCLUSION

The truth is, you can’t inject style into your prose with a few simple devices. Many contemporary writers, however, seem to be doing a whole lot of injecting.

You, beloved reader, can do whatever you like, but I try my best not to juice my prose at all. I worry first about substance: is my story urgent? Does it tell my reader something she doesn’t already know or wouldn’t already assume? Is my protagonist flawed and uniquely vulnerable to the situation and setting? Is each scene both satisfying on its own and an important part of the whole?

If I have all the above, I only need to make sure that the prose is clear. The reader either loves the story or she doesn’t. I don’t need to stress myself trying to affect a unique voice.

I get annoyed with literary writers and the divide between literary and genre fiction. The assumption is that genre fiction is formulaic and the prose is unimportant. But in reality, calling something literary fiction is presumptuous—if I say that I write literary fiction, I presume that you’ll think my books are literature.

Saying something is literature is like saying something is a weed. A weed is not a specific plant, and literature is not a specific type of book. It becomes a weed when the gardeners say it’s a weed; it becomes literature when the readers fall in love.

I understand the value of “literary fiction” as a marketing term, believe me. But let’s be real. Literary fiction is formulaic too. Just describe an affair or some other kind of illicit sex using superficially quirky prose and people will call it literary (if not literature). And yet I, naïve and hungry, want to believe that literature is still out there, that it is still being gashed into pages. That it can change lives, last forever. That the world, that the starved, starved world, will die without it.

–Nolan