Finding an Identity when You’re a Natural Born Liar: Labels

I hate them. Sticky things, especially trying to get the fuckers off a DVD case without damaging the cover. But they won’t let go. I just want to watch my movie.

In high school, I had labels. I’ve been labeled a geek, a nerd, a skater, a hippy, among other things. Damn it, what the hell am I?

“Hey, hippy,” a broad-shouldered football player to whom I relegated the label “jock” said.

I continued eating my lunch.

“Hey, hippy.”

A tater tot flew in my direction, bounced on the table twice, before hitting my Nirvana T-shirt.

I looked up.

“Get me a drink.” He and his jock friends laughed.

“I’m not a hippy.”

“You have long hair.”

“But I’m not a hippy.”

“Hippies have long hair.”

I remembered those stupid problems on the SATs, the ones that fooled you into thinking logically in an alternate history reality.

If all Widgets are Wadgets and all Wadgets are Idgits, then all Widgets are Idigits. Is this statement true or false?

Ummm… Yeah, in a land where Widgets, Wadgets, and Idgits all exists, there’s a possibility.

So, back to the didactic tale:

“Just because I have long hair doesn’t mean that I smoke pot, love nature, abhor showers or listen to the Grateful Dead.” I pointed to my T-shirt. “I skate, I get hurt, I play guitar, and I have long hair. I’m a skater.”

“What?”

“I’m a skater. Get your labels right.” I picked up my little corrugated cup of ketchup, threw it at him covering his white shirt with red dye #5 and high fructose corn syrup, and ran out of the cafeteria.

I hate them. The labels, I mean.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, at least since eight grade. Before that, I wanted to be a biochemist. Big change.

Here I am again, like in High School, hating labels but searching for one. What kind of writer am I? I know that, for marketing purposes, I can’t sell a first novel that’s mystery, a second that’s scifi, and a third that’s literary. I need a label. Am I a thriller writer? A mystery writer? A literary fiction writer?

As a writer, I detest this. Nevertheless, it seems the industry thrives on labels. Not that I blame the industry.

I have to admit, when I go to a bookstore, I browse books by sections. I look for labels. I have expectations. When I buy a novel by a particular author and I love that novel, I look to that writer for more of the same. For example, I really enjoy scifi with a xenoarcheological twist, but it's hard to find. McDevitt's my favorite. Allen Steele does some as well. So when I go to these authors, I have expect them to produce more of what I like.

As a consumer, I want subcategorizations that help me find what I crave; but, as a writer, I discover that labels limit. Why not have a Nazi Vampire Space Multicultural Romance followed by an International Literary Thriller Comedy with Nazi aliens?

I search for my label. Who am I? What do I write? Where would I fit in on the shelf and what would consumers expect of me?

In all the sage-like advice on the web for wannabe writers (hell, another label!), I come across this one often: Write what you like to read.

Now, I’m sure that I’m not as unique as I would love to be, and I’ll assume that most people read across the genres. I love mysteries, scifi, and literary fiction. I love horror, thrillers, and mainstream. My favorite writers do not fall in any one category, and they barely have anything in common.

So what do I do? Write what I know.

Hell, I like jeopardy, so I fancy I know quite a bit (that’s genuine writer’s ego there, folks). But, I would be frightened if most writers actually knew too much about their subjects (think horror and international spy thrillers). So, I take the familiar, surround it with pizzazz, and supplement what I don’t know with research. Not, too much though, just a pinch.

Yet, I can’t label myself.

Here I am, pining for my label and never satiated.