I’m declaring war on any bookstore that doesn’t immediately reclassify Margaret Atwood’s newest book Oryx and Crake under “science fiction.”

It’s a story about an apocalyptic future in which genetic experiments wipe out the majority of human beings, allowing a new species to emerge.  Get it?  The future.  Genetic science.  Sounds a bit like...hmm...science fiction?  Or at least speculative fiction.

But no.  Margaret Atwood is a big hoopty-doo writer who won the Booker Prize and teaches at a university and is beloved by English professors everywhere, so that means she’s “legitimate.” And that means--?  Her novel gets classified as “literature” in every single bookstore I’ve visited. As though the genre of science fiction isn’t a legitimate art form.  (Which the very existence of Oryx and Crake disproves.)

And Atwood isn’t the only one to get this treatment.  Bookstores seem intent on keeping books out of their appropriate genre if deemed to be sufficiently hoity toity.  Even if it’s a brilliantly written piece of genre fiction, they insist on classifying it as “literature"--which is another word for “realism.”

Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold?  Right, that shouldn’t be in the fantasy section.  Because IT’S VERY COMMON THAT DEAD GIRLS COME DOWN FROM HEAVEN AND TOOL AROUND WITH THEIR FAMILY.

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut?  That shouldn’t be in science fiction, because ALIENS ALWAYS HELP WAR VETERANS LEARN TO TIME TRAVEL.

Animal Farm by George Orwell?  That shouldn’t be in fantasy.  Because ANIMALS ALWAYS STAND AROUND AND TALK.  WHY, JUST YESTERDAY I HAD A CONVERSATION WITH MY CAT.  I SAID “HELLO CAT” AND MY CAT SAID “HEY” AND I SAID “WHATCHA DOING” AND HE SAID “COUGHING UP A HAIRBALL” AND WE HAD A NICE CHAT.

This serves as my only warning, bookstores.  Get with the program or I’m going to visit every single one of you. And you know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to shuffle all the books around and put them in the categories that I deem appropriate.

Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections?  It goes in “Child Development,” so you learn how not to raise your kids.

Anne Patchett’s Bel Canto?  It goes under “Humor.” Because, you know, the takeover of a south american embassy with dozens of innocents held hostage?  It is to laugh!

Dave Egger’s Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius?  It goes in “Self Help,” so whiny people can read it and take comfort that Eggers is even more annoying than they are.

Bookstores, take heed.  I’m here to design book jackets and kick butt--and I’m all out of book jackets.