…….as a writer.
I can almost hear a sharp intake of breath from as I write this.
Writers aren’t meant to fit in.
We’re the irritating bit of grit that turns into an iridescent pearl.
We’re the grey-sharp scalpel piercing heart and soul.
We’re the open door to another world.
I want my words – laid down in the white-hot, caffeine-fuelled furnace of creativity then pared to the bone by the editing blade – to attain the perfect balance.
Heart and soul
Yin and yang
Well written and well read.
Yes, well read.
I unashamedly want my stories to be read.
Read by real people who will like ’em, laugh at ’em, disagree with ’em, put ’em down, pick ’em up again, tell their friends about something they read recently which they can’t quite now recall exactly what happened but it was actually quite good.
But, as I’ve mentioned before, I struggle with genre, to find my “market”. I’m too dark for romance, too light for literary. Too plain for poetry, too purple for prose. Too ordinary for fantasy, too weird for realism.
But here I sit.
Writing, writing, writing
Reading – the magazines, the submission guidelines, the generous feedback I get from my circle of trust and the editors who have time to drop me an encouraging email.
Still seeking a place where I will fit in.