But of the examples mentioned above, only Maggie Shayne’s (her Wings in the Night series, started in 1993 with Twilight Phantasies) and Feehan’s books (Dark Prince, first of her Dark series, was published in 1999) were published as romance and conformed to that genre’s expectations of a love relationship central to the plot with a positive, satisfying ending in which the reader is assured the couple will remain together.
Rice, although her fame has come from writing about vampires and witches, has always shunned labels and her books are commonly shelved in bookstores simply as “fiction.” It certainly isn’t genre romance.
Hamilton’s first Anita Blake Vampire Hunter novel, Guilty Pleasures, was published in 1993. Set in an alternate world where the supernatural is known to exist and the preternatural have been granted equal rights in the U.S., Hamilton’s earliest books did have a romantic aspect, but Anita Blake was closer to a horrific version of mystery novelist Sue Grafton’s character Kinsey Millhone than a romance heroine.
Charlaine Harris’s first Southern Vampire Mysteries novel, Dead Until Dark, won an Anthony Award as Best Paperback Mystery of 2001. Her heroine, Sookie Stackhouse, lives in a world where supernatural creatures have recently “come out” and co-exist with humans. As a secret telepath, Sookie has problems dating fellow humans until she meets a vampire whose mind she can’t read.
Nobody called these books “urban fantasy,” at the time. Nor, at first, were Kelley Armstrong’s Women of the Otherworld series (first book: Bitten, 2001) or Kim Harrison’s Dead Witch Walking (2004), the first of her Rachel Morgan novels, or any of the other novels of this increasingly popular fantasy. It wasn’t romance and even though it was dark and vampires, werewolves, and other supernatural creatures were involved, you couldn’t call it horror. For the most part it was just “fantasy”—even if reviewers, journalists, and others sometimes misnamed it as paranormal romance.
Meanwhile true paranormal romance set in an alternate world similar to our own—some with the romance occurring in a well-built fantasy universe, some with only a nod to meaningful fantastic elements—was selling well too. Heroines and heroes found each other and a happy-ever-after ending (even if one’s true love happened to be a vampire or demon or werewolf ) while saving the world from supernatural nastiness (often in the form of vampires, demons, werewolves, etc.)
[I edited The Year’s Best Paranormal Fiction anthology in 2006, with a lengthy introduction about the romance tradition and definition. It pointed out the difference between “fantasy with some romance” and fiction from the marketing category called romance, but suggested we just call it all paranormal romance. It was a lame attempt and I now disavow it. The next volume was called The Year’s Best Romantic Fantasy and then (against the publisher’s wishes at the time) I killed the series. But that is another story. Let’s just say I saw the light.]
Around 2005, the term urban fantasy started to be used to differentiate novels that were not “paranormal romance-according-to-romance-genre.” Outside of the simple fact there were starting to be a lot of books of this type being published and they were being published as fantasy—printed on the spine and categorized by BISAC Subject Code (a list used to categorize books based on topical content that theoretically determines where the work is shelved or the genre under which it can be searched for in a database)—I suspect, but have no proof, that the term popped up for two reasons.
First, although some fans could not care less about labels, readers who wanted romance resented books not fitting their expectations being called romance. There seemed to be a suspicion, too, among some more vociferous fans that “someone” was trying to sneak non-romance into the romance sections of bookstores. That being said, many romance readers seemed to be receptive to fantasy and flexible about “crossing the aisle” without prejudice.
Perhaps more importantly, writers of fantasy of this type, primarily women, weren’t getting respect from their peers or the fantasy “experts.” (Books by male authors—most notably Jim Butcher—whose books appealed to the same readership weren’t being called paranormal romance.) They wrote fantasy and wanted it to be recognized as such. These books were the hottest thing in the fantasy field and bringing in throngs of new readers—many of whom had previously read mostly romance or mystery or were discovering fantasy for the first time or realizing fantasy wasn’t what they had thought it was—yet the authors and the fiction as a whole were being ignored (even derided) by the field itself and most of its established mavens.
Somehow or another—sometimes appropriately, sometimes not—this type of fantasy came to be called urban fantasy. It gave readers and authors something new to debate, but I’m not sure it made much of a corrective dent in the perspectives of many in the sf/f community or the media.
Of course there are authors of “this stuff” who can’t neatly be labeled as either paranormal romance or urban fantasy. There are writers like MaryJanice Davidson, Shanna Swendson, and Julie Kenner who write lighter fare that has been placed into one category or another almost arbitrarily. Books can be unintentionally or even intentionally mislabeled by publishers, or series can evolve out of or into one genre or the other.
But, trust me, the terms are not interchangeable.
Calling these books urban fantasy, however, confused longtime fantasy lovers and ruffled some definitional feathers. The term (and the fiction it then described) first gained popularity in the 1980s. To quote John Clute on “Urban Fantasy” in The Encyclopedia of Fantasy (ed. by J. Clute & J. Grant, 1997):
Urban fantasy…. A city may be seen from afar, and is generally seen clear; the UF is told from within and from the perspective of characters acting out their roles, it may be difficult to determine the extent and nature of the surrounding reality. UFs are normally texts where fantasy and the mundane world interact, intersect and interweave throughout a tale which is significantly about a real city.
Authors (and landmark works) most commonly cited as early examples of urban fantasy include Jonathan Carroll (The Land of Laughs, 1980), John Crowley (Little, Big; 1981), Charles de Lint (Moonheart, 1984), and Emma Bull (War for the Oaks, 1987). Additionally, Terri Windling’s shared-world anthology for teens (co-edited with Mark Alan Arnold), Borderland, (1986) and its subsequent series of anthologies and novels are important early works. When discussing this type of urban fantasy in a larger context, authors like Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, and Caitlín R. Kiernan are often mentioned.
As for the ruffling of feathers, well, most of those feathers belonged to folks unacquainted with a broad enough range of this “new” urban fantasy to make any judgment calls to start with. But, hey, not really knowing much about playing a sport doesn’t keep anyone from second-guessing a team or its coaches, either.
Charles de Lint wrote that he feels the subtitle of his novel Jack of Kinrowan: A Novel of Urban Faerie led to his work becoming termed urban fantasy. He and Terri Windling came up with “mythic fiction” to better describe their strain of the fantastic. It is an admirable and workable definition and now used by knowledgeable readers, critics, and academics.
I don’t like less-than-well-thought-out labels any more than Joe Lansdale does, and agree the more a type of fiction is “directed” like cows through a chute the more likely it is “all going to end in the slaughterhouse.”
I am in awe of these two gentlemen (and gentlemen both truly are). Their intelligence, imaginations, talents, and works are breathtaking. They are masters of the art and craft of storytelling. They (and others of their kind) create wonderful tales that I wish could magically attract folks simply by being what it is: superlative reading.
In a perfect world, great fiction—or even entertainingly adequate fiction—would not be a commodity that has to be packaged and sold.
But publishing is not only an imperfect world, it’s a world with an absurd business model where no one has any real idea why a particular book sells or how to reliably get proper attention for its products. In the last few years, it’
s gotten to be an even stranger and more dangerous a place for writers to survive. What little guidance the best publishers and editors might once have provided doesn’t matter as much. More than ever, whatever simplistic label can be stuck to a book—or, better yet, what already highly successful, previously published book/author that a new title can be compared to—matters a great deal. It matters because without such tagging, books don’t get into brick-and-mortar stores at all and don’t get favorably grouped for online sales.
The chutes are used because they help at least some of the cattle get fat so they can retire to nice green meadows rather than winding up as part of a Big Mac. Some others can at least chew their cud and moo a little longer than they might have otherwise.
Readers and writers of books that became known as urban fantasy—let’s call it urban fantasy/paranormal from here on out—were ready for it because, well, its time had come. Outside of literary influences—including comic book heroines—strong women heroes like Ellen Ripley in the Alien series (1979, 1986, 1992, and 1997) and Sarah Connor in the first two Terminator movies (1984 and 1991) made an impression in film. And although the protagonist is male, The Crow (1994) was, at its core, a supernatural love story inextricably tied to the modern city. Like The Crow, the 1998 vampire-action film Blade (1998) was based on a comic. Its macho human-vampire hybrid protected humans against vampires—but why couldn’t a woman do the same?
Television series were another influence. Beauty and the Beast (original run: 1987–1990 on CBS) updated the old tale of the noble man-beast. His love was a smart assistant district attorney in New York. He lived among other social outcasts under the city. Nick Knight, a TV movie released in 1989, was about a vampire working as a police detective in modern day Los Angeles. In 1992, CBS reshaped it as a series, Forever Knight. It ran three seasons, ending in 1996. The X-Files (originally aired from 1993 to 2002 on Fox) is considered by many as the defining series of the nineties. Despite its science fictional trappings and conspiracy theories, true believer Fox Mulder and skeptic Dana Scully were paranormal investigators. The protagonist of the Xena: Warrior Princess, a supernatural fantasy adventure series that aired in syndication 1995–2001, may not have been modern or urban, but she was a formidable fighter seeking her redemption by helping others.
Since the first books that became known as urban fantasy/paranormal were written before its existence, the authors can’t be said to have been directly inspired by Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer television series (1997–2003) [and its spin-off series Angel (1999–2004)]. But many of those who later became its readers and writers probably were.
The Buffy series was darker than Whedon’s action-comedy/horror parody film of the same name (1992) and better conveyed his concept of an empowered woman fighting monsters (metaphors for problems that humans, especially teenagers, face).
Buffy Summers had “kickassitude”—and by kickassitude I don’t necessarily mean violence. In slang, the word originally meant awesome, cool, something that “kicks ass” in a positive manner. As far as female examples, the easiest comparisons are women in rock who displayed kickassitude: Joan Jett, Chrissie Hynde, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, Lita Ford, Deborah Harry, etc.
And, like rock-and-roll, Buffy had meaning but was also a lot of fun.
Books have been written on the pop cultural meaning and impact of Buffy. Let’s just sum it up by saying Buffy borrowed from folklore, myth, literature, film, and television for serialized episodes that were part of a larger story arc. Although a drama, there was plenty of comedy and genre-blending from romance, science fiction, martial arts, action, and more. Buffy and her friends were saving the world from supernatural threat with a combination of investigation, physical combat, and magic. She was also struggling with her role as a “chosen” heroine and learning about herself as a person.
But even if not recognized as such, the urban fantasy/paranormal heroine was definitely around pre-Buffy (and even pre-Hamilton) in fantasy literature.
Mercedes Lackey’s Diana Tregarde first appeared in a couple of short stories and then in three novels: Burning Water (1989), Children of the Night (1990), and Jinx High (1991). An American witch whose day job is writing romance novels, Diana is a Guardian. This gives her more magical power, but also the responsibility of providing aid to those who ask her for help. In the three books (published by Tor as horror) she provides protection from angry deities, vampires, and a sorceress.
Tanya Huff ’s Blood books (five novels and a collection of short stories) mixed a strong heroine with vampires, mystery, suspense, and romance. Blood Price (1991) introduced Vicki Nelson, a homicide detective forced to retire when her eyesight fails due to Retinitis pigmentosa. Vicki teams up with Henry Fitzroy—a 450-year-old vampire and bastard son of Henry VIII—and becomes a private investigator. The other man in her life is Detective-Sergeant Mike Celluci. The series is set in Toronto. The books became the basis of a short-lived TV series, Blood Ties, which premiered on Lifetime in 2007.
The urban fantasy/paranormal heroine owes a lot to the tradition of the hard-boiled tough-guy American detective genre—there were tough gals, too, like Gale Gallagher, Honey West, V. I. Warshawski, and Kinsey Millhone—and to stories of “occult detectives” and various “vampire detectives.” She is also derived from sword and sorcery and is a female incarnation of the action-adventure hero. Most of all, she’s relevant to the here and now. It may be fantasy, but urban fantasy/paranormal says a lot about our fears and hopes, our cynicism and angst, our personal journeys and cultural climate.
In the last five years—a period that saw the phenomenal success of Stephenie Meyer’s young adult vampire-romance fantasy series and its consequent film versions; movies like Underworld; Blood Ties on TV; Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse novels become the HBO series True Blood; and young adult urban fantasy/paranormal romance series were introduced—urban fantasy/ paranormal boomed. So many titles were published—some good, some bad, some in-between; some derivative, some highly original—it became impossible for even the most devoted fan to keep up with it all, especially since it takes multiple volumes for the whole story to be told.
That’s one disadvantage of uf/p: It tends to be written best in novel form—in multiple sequential volumes at that! You simply don’t find many high-caliber short stories that completely fit the model. I’m not even sure all the fine stories selected for the pertinent section of this anthology can be assigned to this subgenre.
What I think you will find, however, is that all of the fiction collected here has something in common: An intersection of “the other”—the magical, the strange, the weird, the wondrous, the dark that illumines, the revelation of the hidden—with the mundane, the world we know.
Our world is in perpetual need of this otherness. It entertains and, at its best, enlightens. We need both.
Companions to the Moon
Charles de Lint
“I think Edric’s cheating on me.”
Gwen’s eyes widen, then fill with sympathy.
We’re sitting across from each other at a small table in the Half Kaffe Café. It’s a regular haunt of ours—as Bohemian as Gwen can tolerate, and about as uptown as I’ll go. They make an excellent cup of regular coffee, but they also serve the fancy chi-chi drinks that she likes. Decaf soy lattes. Chai teas.
“Oh, Mary,” she says. “That’s awful.”
I’ve known Gwen forever. We were best friends from kindergarten all the way through to our final year of high school when I made a sharp turn into garage rock-slash-punkdom, while Gwen suddenly became this responsible young woman aiming for university whom I couldn’t recognize anymore. It felt like it happened overnight. One moment we were doing everything together—Girl Guides, piano lessons, messing about in the woods behind her house—the next we were strangers.
But while we drifted apart—I couldn’t care less about a house in the suburbs, or worry about finding a good job, and the last thing Gwen would do is listen to the Clash or
come to a Stooges concert with me—we made an effort to stay friends. Once or twice a month we had lunch, or the occasional dinner, and caught up. Sometimes we even brought our husbands.
Okay, Edric and I aren’t married. But seven years together is almost as good as, don’t you think?
“How did you find out?” she asks.
“Well, I haven’t, exactly. It’s just this feeling I get.”
Gwen nods wisely. She starts to tick off points on her fingers. “Doesn’t seem as interested in you anymore. Hang-ups when you pick up the phone. Has to work late a lot more often than he used to.”
“None of the above. You forget, he’s always out late.”
“Duh,” she says and slaps her brow with the palm of her hand. “Working musician.”
“Anyway, I can’t quite put my finger on it. We just don’t seem to do as much together. I mean, we used to do the shopping as a couple. Yard work, household chores. Now, he’s says that if I’m getting groceries, it’s more efficient if he puts in a laundry, or does some weeding in the garden. I liked that we did that kind of thing together, but now we hardly do.”
“So tell him.”
“I have. It doesn’t help.”
“And is he taking more out-of-town gigs than he used to?”
I shake my head. “No, but that’s a funny thing. I was looking at the calendar the other day and noticed that most of his out-of-town gigs are during a full moon. Then I checked the website his booking agent put up for him, and he’s always out of town during the full moon.”