It’s not a real proposal, but someone has come up with a provocative new genre, Squidpunk.
Fiction that unlike New Weird, Steampunk, or Slipstream, is at its core not only about squid, but about the symbolism of squid as color-changing, highly-mobile, alien-looking, intelligent ocean-goers. As a powerful ecosystem indicator, the squid is a potent symbol for environmental rejuvenation. Squidpunk is almost exclusively set at sea and must contain some reference to either cephalopods or to anything that thematically relates to squid, in terms of world iconography and tropes. Squidpunk is never escapist or whimsical. It is always serious and edgy. This combination of a hard punk aesthetic with the fluid propulsion system common to the squid has produced a unique literary hybrid beloved by Mundanes and Surrealists alike.
I’d read it. I would hope, though, that authors would realize that this definition is hopelessly restrictive and far too narrow to encompass the imaginings of the savants of the squidpunk movement. For instance, there’s no reason it must be set at sea; the landlocked prairies of cold northern states — Minnesota, for instance — can be a fertile backdrop for the more exotic variations on the theme, as can even temperate rainforests. The statement that it is always serious and edgy is also false: squidpunk erotica, with its softer focus on tactile pleasures and mind-expanding interactions with otherness is one of the most popular motifs.
And how could this critic overlook the common threads of biodiversity, evolution, and the alien within us? It’s like he never even read any squidpunk, and the whole essay reads like the guesswork of a poseur.