I’ve come to the conclusion that my work is always going to be a little weird. A little quirky. Not a nice neat fit into any genre. And I’ve made my peace with that. I can try to fit better into boxes, but I find these days that I just don’t want to.
A few years ago I wrote a novella about zombie dragons. It was kind of fantasy but set in a post-apocalyptic, steam-punky world. I had such a blast writing it. I submitted it at a conference for feedback, and while the editor loved the pages, she said it would be a nightmare to publish—not in a discouraging way, but just letting me in on the reality of the industry at that time. Perhaps I’ll self publish it one day.
It feels like the world is in a place–with this vibe–where people are starting to just embrace who they are and retooling their environs to fit them as opposed to squeezing themselves into imperfect containers. It feels like as a collective we’re moving away from the cookie-cutter traditional everything: education, jobs, marriage, families. Overcrowded as it is, the world is so big with so much room for diversity, and the pandemic seems to have given people time and space to envision how to make that work for real and not just lip service and workshops.
I’m rambling a bit. I’m okay with that.
Yesterday on Twitter I saw a question posted by an author who was being told to lean her writing into what was more commercially certain instead of what she wanted to create. The responses telling her to do what she loved were so gratifying to see. I think I will take the advice that was given to her.
And on that happy note, Merc and I have been chatting and she’s requested some changes to her narrative. So we’re getting back to work now.
Have a beautiful day!