Genres come with expectations about how, where, and why information is presented. Genre expectations do not exist in a vacuum. Instead, as writing genre expert Amy Devitt tells us, “Genre exists through people’s individual rhetorical actions at the nexus of the contexts of situation, culture, and genres” (Writing Genres 31). In other words, people’s actions influence an audience’s genre expectations.

Carolyn Miller, a leading professor in the field of technical communication, argues that “a rhetorically sound definition of genre must be centered . . . on the action it is used to accomplish” (151). How might this look? These actions don’t have to be complex; many genres are a part of our daily lives. Think about genres as tools to help people to get things done. Amy J. Devitt writes that:

Genres have the power to help or hurt human interaction, to ease communication or to deceive, to enable someone to speak or to discourage someone from saying something different. People learn how to do small talk to ease the social discomfort of large group gatherings and meeting new people, but advertisers learn how to disguise sales letters as winning sweepstakes entries. (Writing Genres 1)

In other words, knowing what a genre is used for can help people to accomplish a goal, whether that goal be getting a job by knowing how to write a stellar resume, winning a person’s heart by writing a romantic love letter, or getting into graduate school by writing an effective personal statement.

Genres in Action

By this point you might realize that you have been participating in many different genres all along—whether you are telling a joke, writing an email, or uploading a witty status on Facebook. Because you know how these genres function as social actions, you can accurately predict how they function rhetorically; your joke should generate a laugh, your email should elicit a response, and your updated Facebook status should generate comments from your online friends. Possibly without even thinking about it, you were recognizing the rhetorical situation and choosing to act in a manner that would result in the outcome you desired. I imagine that you would probably not share a risqué joke with your mom, send a “Hey Buddy” email to your professor, or update your Facebook status to read: “My brother has a huge wart on his foot.”

Knowing what is appropriate in these situations obviously requires more rhetorical knowledge than filling out a credit card application. Devitt argues that “people do not label a particular story as a joke solely because of formal features but rather because of their perception of the rhetorical action that is occurring” (Writing Genres 11). That is, we get the joke (or don’t) because of the degree to which we understand key elements of the story, from context to format. True, genres often have formulaic features, but these features can change even as the nature of the genre remains the same (Devitt, Writing Genres 48). What is important to consider here is that if mastering a form were simply a matter of plugging in content, we would all be capable of successfully writing in any genre when we are given a formula.

Fortunately, even if you have been taught to write in a formulaic way, you probably don’t treat texts in a strictly formulaic manner. When approaching a genre for the first time, you likely view it as more than a simple form. That is, we treat texts that we encounter as rhetorical objects; we choose between horror movies and rom-coms  not only because we are familiar with the forms but because we know what response they will elicit from us (nail-biting fear and dreamy sighs, respectively). The bottomline is that all genres matter because all genres shape our everyday lives.

Audience and Purpose

By studying the genres we find familiar, we can start to see how writers’ specific choices result in specific actions on the part of readers; naturally, it follows that our own writing must be purposefully written, too. For example, let’s consider a publication whose writers and editors have a specific purpose and a specific audience in mind. You may be familiar with The Onion, a fictitious newspaper that uses real-world examples to create humorous situations. Perhaps the most notable genre convention of The Onion is the creation of hilarious headlines that serve a simple purpose: to make the reader laugh. While many of the articles are also entertaining, the majority of the humor is produced through the headlines. In fact, the headlines are so important to the success of the newspaper that they are tested on volunteers to see the readers’ immediate responses.

These headlines are all quite brief; otherwise, they share no specific stylistic features. The Onion titles embrace a particular rhetorical action to bring about a specific response, which differentiates its writing style from other related genres. For those of you unfamiliar with this newspaper, here are a few examples to ponder: (politically charged or other possibly offensive headlines purposefully avoided):

• “Archaeological Dig Uncovers Ancient Race of Skeleton People”
• “Don’t Run Away, I’m Not the Flesh-Eating Kind of Zombie”
• “Time Traveler: Everyone In The Future Eats Dippin’ Dots
• “‘I Am Under 18’ Button Clicked For First Time In History Of Internet”
• “Commas, Turning Up, Everywhere”
• “Myspace Outage Leaves Millions Friendless.”
• “Amazon.com Recommendations Understand Area Woman Better Than Husband”
• “Study: Dolphins Not So Intelligent On Land”
• “Beaver Overthinking Dam”
• “Study: Alligators Dangerous No Matter How Drunk You Are”
• “Child In Corner To Exact Revenge As Soon As He Gets Out” (The Onion)

If at least one of these headlines made you laugh, ask yourself why? Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that headline writers are rhetorically aware of who reads these headlines—college students, like you, and more specifically, educated college students who know enough about politics, culture, and U.S. and world events to “get” these headlines.

While we may not think of genre as rhetorical, genre is in fact another tool for persuasion, which identifies it as such. And whenever we’re working with something rhetorical, we’ve got to think about our specific purpose and a specific audience. Each time we write or communicate, we’re relying on particular audience expectations in order to be successful in that writing and communication.

Here’s how this might play out with a medium we interact with regularly: movies. Let’s say that we are watching The Proposal, another rom-com featuring an executive who falls for her assistant. What do we expect to happen? First of all, we expect to laugh, right? We also expect that after some foolish  situations, a few obstacles, and a little character growth, the protagonists would end up falling for one another. In an alternate scenario, let’s say we are watching SuperBad, a coming-of-age story of two friends—Evan and Fogell—about to leave for college but not before a night of mishaps  involving such plot twists as a fake ID incident before Evan wins his true love’s heart. What would we expect to happen in this young-adult, “buddy”  movie? First, we expect it to be funny, right? Second, we expect various shenanigans to occur as a result of Fogell’s mistake with the fake ID. Both comedies include  a clear romantic  plot and silly situations that produce humorous moments the audience can relate to. However, the humor hits differently in these movies. The Proposal’s humor is lighthearted and charming while SuperBad’s humor is a bit more crude and specific to younger viewers. In terms of genre, what do these examples show? Genres diverge depending on purpose and audience, both of which determine our expectations.  These movies are similar in genre.

Think back to our discussion of genres. This section tells us that while certain movies  are classified as specific genres, most have sub-genres that fit the overall expectations but vary key elements for new or different situations, purposes, and audiences. The conventions used  in the film show which audience the script writer has in mind, and what they hope to accomplish by relating to that particular audience. Likewise, with written composition, the genre conventions present in your work  reveal your purpose and audience. By the same token, your audience and purpose shape and inform your writing. Each point, paragraph, and moment of insight connects your reader to your purpose.

Genres and Contexts

Interestingly enough, two texts that might fit into the same genre might also look extremely different. Let’s think about why this might be the case. Devitt points out that “different grocery stores make for different grocery lists” (“Transferability and Genres” 218).  Those differences stem from such factors as the store’s location, brand, and products, but the genre is still recognizable as a grocery list; only the context or location have changed.

Recognizing or knowing a genre is about much more than simply knowing its form, in other words. Think about a time when you were asked to write a research paper. You probably had an idea of what that paper should look like, but you also needed to consider contextual elements, such as how your teacher’s expectations would help to shape your assignment, what the level of the course was; or what kind of topics fit the course. The research paper you might be required to write in a first-year composition class might be completely different from the research paper you might be asked to write for an introductory psychology class. Your goal is to recognize these shifts in context and to be aware of how such shifts might affect your writing.

Genre Framing

Genres also establish expectations through frames, which are the ways information is presented to an audience. Communication expert George Lakoff tells us, “You think in terms of structured frames. It’s the most ordinary thing you do” (“Idea Framing”). Imagine  you were planning to have surgery. As  you’re wheeled into an operating room—what might you expect to see there? What people might you expect to be there? You might expect to see surgical instruments, medical equipment, surgeons, anesthesiologists, and nurses. But what if you saw a bunch of balloons in the operating room? We would not expect to see balloons in an operating room because those objects don’t fit with our expectations for how surgery is to be conducted.

Similarly, if you were going to receive written instructions on how to prepare for surgery, you might not expect them in comic book format. Our surgery example shows us that our expectations of people’s actions in a context also influence the kind of communication we expect there. Frames are how we describe our and our audience’s expectations. Check out this great description of frames from cognitive science and linguistics scholar George Lakoff.

Lakoff also tells us how the physical neuroscience of our brains recognizes the expectations, boundaries, roles, and scenarios from different genre frames. Notice how Lakoff describes frames as political? That’s because frames are contingent on our perspective. As writers, we need to consider how our own perspective might be representative of or different than our audience’s perspective. To write successfully in any genre, we need to clearly analyze the situation to determine how we can frame information and fulfill our audience’s expectations.

To understand genre, we need to identify the key elements of a text and how those elements might change between genres. Texts feature information like a title, author, publication date, venue, and other elements that we can recognize in one genre and analyze across genres.

Analyzing Genres

To analyze genres, we need to use active reading skills to determine the complex textual elements at work. For example, we can easily identify an author of a piece using the byline, but analyzing the author’s stance is a more in-depth task. An author’s stance is the attitude that the writer has toward the topic of their message (“Stance and Language”). We can analyze an author’s stance in the content, tone, and style of an author’s writing. We can see in the following examples from the Purdue OWL that show how two authors reflected on the same event in very different ways:

EXAMPLE 1

Once we got to the food section of the event, I immediately realized that there was little to no organization. There was trash all over the place, with no trashcan in sight. There was a serious lack of tables to eat at, so many people were forced to eat standing up, which got really messy because of the nature of some of the foods. Many of the organizations that were selling the foods apparently didn’t talk to each other, because I saw many of the same kinds of rice, fish, even bread at the different tables.

Furthermore, many of the dishes were either cold or too little. And of all the tables, only one group also thought of bringing the drinks, so getting a drink meant standing in line for half an hour, mainly because they kept running out because of the high demand.

One would think that an event whose focus was mainly food would put a little more thought and planning into it.

EXAMPLE 2

Almost all Asian student organizations have participated in this event. There were plenty of foods from different Asian countries and areas. Fried rice from China, spring rolls from Vietnam, curries fish ball from Hong Kong and chicken from Singapore. Though these foods are not exactly like they would be tasted like in real Asia, these still give you a basic idea about how are Asian food look and taste like and how large is the diversity of Asian food. Among so many choices of foods, I definitely will recommend the curry fish ball from Hong Kong Student Association. It tastes exactly like what you would taste in Hong Kong, so it might be the most original taste of Asia. (“Stance and Language”)

In  these examples, what words, phrases, or ideas might reveal how this author feels about this event? When considering your own stance while  writing, ask the following questions: “How do you want to be perceived by your reader(s)? Opinionated or neutral? Passionate or indifferent? Biased or objective? Critical or fair? What is your relationship with the audience that may affect your choice of stance?”  (“Purpose and Stance”).

In short, analyzing a genre means paying close attention to the writer’s choices. We can successfully analyze genres by examining the author’s stance, key moves the author makes, the text layout, design, organization, and structure, the use of language and style, evidence from outside sources, and other elements to help us determine how the author’s choices communicate information within genre expectations.

On the other hand, to compose in a genre means making these specific choices that you might have already analyzed. We can compare these experiences to the differences between reviewing a movie versus creating a movie. It’s a reviewer’s job to determine what makes a movie worth watching or avoiding and explain the reasons for such an analysis to the reader. Let’s examine how acclaimed reviewer Roger Ebert wrote about reviewing Adam Sandler’s remake of The Longest Yard:

I often practice a generic approach to film criticism, in which the starting point for a review is the question of what a movie sets out to achieve. “The Longest Yard” more or less achieves what most of the people attending it will expect. Most of its audiences will be satisfied enough when they leave the theater, although few will feel compelled to rent it on video to share with their friends. (Ebert, “‘Yard’ Catches an Outside Pass”)

We can see in this excerpt that Ebert recognizes his own role as reviewer is to capture what a movie sets out to achieve—in short, how it might work within genre expectations. We can see that most clearly when Ebert describes the movie as “a fair example of what it is,” which in this case means a comedic remake. When you analyze genres, remember that you don’t have to like what you analyze, but instead appreciate the object of analysis for what it is trying to accomplish. But when you compose in genres, remember that you’re the moviemaker—your writing shows your reader what you hope to achieve in your chosen genre.

Recognizing Corollary Genres

Writing in different genres can help us see the connections and overlap among genres. Some writing genres have similar expectations to them, like journaling and blogging, but different audiences. Other writing genres might have variations based on how people have used these genres, like comic books and graphic novels, where subtle changes can make huge differences in how audiences perceive the writing. A corollary genre is a concept that can help us recognize similar writing strategies used across related  genres.

What is a corollary genre and why does it matter? As defined by the Genres Across Borders network, a corollary genre is “a genre variation engendered when actors revise some of the discursive qualities and expectations of a particular genre but do not completely transform the genre itself. Such modifications bring about derivative or ‘corollary’ genres.” Genres are adaptable, in other words, to suit new purposes and audiences. In the context of first-year writing courses, corollary genres help us determine the different kinds of writing moves you’ll want to make as you compose.

Corollary genres also help us connect similar kinds of information and expectations in multiple genres. As we discussed above, genre expectations can determine how and what information we frame for the reader. You’ll write in a variety of genres in your writing courses and life, so it’s important to ask: what is the bigger communicative purpose for this particular genre? Who is the specific audience? Corollary genres help us resolve these questions! For example, journals, blogs, movie reviews, and narratives are all examples of critical reflection, which asks writers to consider the significance of their experiences and communicate that significance by telling specific stories. If we’re writing in one of these corollary genres,, we’ll need to reflect on important information and communicate the significance of that information to our reader.

Grouping Genres

But as we mentioned earlier with our research paper example, we can group genres and corollary genres by their common features and expectations. Think about holiday films. Whatever winter holiday you celebrate, some networks like to air marathons of films connected to the Christmas holiday. Amazingly, Christmas movies can range from the romantic comedy Love Actually to the action film, Die Hard. Both films take place around the Christmas holiday and have key plot elements related to Christmas. Love Actually, as a romantic comedy, includes its fair share of Santa costumes and awkward gift-giving scenarios that get the characters into trouble. Alternatively, Die Hard takes place during a Christmas party that gets crashed by some burglars and results in a lot of Christmas-related action scenes.

While the debate over whether Die Hard “counts” as a Christmas movie continues to this day, in the context of this chapter, we can recognize how the genre of holiday films is interestingly expanded by its inclusion. Ultimately, corollary genres show us that genres are not monolithic—they contain varied examples that are connected by common  features and expectations.

Writing across Genres

As demonstrated in previous sections in this chapter, our understanding of corollary genres evolves constantly. However, most genres  rely on these key building blocks: summarizing, analyzing, synthesizing, and using multiple communication modes. Why do you need to master these skills? First, these skills are foundational to many composing tasks. In fact, they’re so useful across genres that you can apply these skills to a variety of situations in the classroom, at work, and in everyday life. Second, these skills build in complexity from summary to analysis to synthesis; multimodality also ranges from simple to complex as you gain confidence. Therefore, once you learn these skills, you will be better prepared to make complex arguments, problem solve, and communicate persuasively. In the next sections, we outline these foundational skills.