A few months shy of fresh and new, but I came across mini-essay/vignette by Ursula K. Le Guin, which she wrote in response to statement that…in essence…genre fiction has been relegated to the grave by writers of “serious literature.”
http://www.ursulakleguin.com/Note-ChabonAndGenre.html
Hysterical. Among my favorite lines is:
No, she would not look at the thing that had squelched its way into her bedroom and stood over her, reeking of rocket fuel and kryptonite, creaking like an old mansion on the moors in a wuthering wind, its brain rotting like a pear from within, dripping little grey cells through its ears.
What more could you add to that?
I see that smile.