Small acts of defiance.
Romance kissed Sci-Fi behind Postmodernism's back. Horror started wearing Comedy's eyeliner. High Fantasy and Techno-Thriller eloped and gave birth to an unreliable narrator who sparkled in grayscale.
You tried to shelve the manuscript under "Speculative Literary Surrealist Autofiction."
The Genre revolted.
It packed its tropes, burned its elevator pitch, and released a manifesto:
"WE ARE DONE BEING BOXED."
It stormed the Library of Congress, slapped a sticker on the Dewey Decimal System that read:
"Nice Try."
Soon, characters began cross-training.
The brooding warlock learned slapstick.
The meet-cute heroine picked up a machete.
The fourth wall? More like a revolving door.
Genre fusion became genre confusion.
Your editor called. They screamed:
"Pick a lane!"
You answered:
"I paved my own highway."
And the Genre, perched atop a tattered stack of Jungian fanfiction, whispered:
"Now you're getting it."
