I’ve lost track of how many stories I’ve written. Writers write primarily for themselves, but at a certain point it occurs that maybe somebody else would like to read your stuff. You can get disabused of that notion pretty quickly, but still you’ll write.
I subscribe to Duotrope. It’s a search engine with useful content for potential publishers. So when I finish a story I let my fingers do the walking to find someone who might like it. I can’t classify my writing; it’s all over the place.
You find a publisher then read what they want. It’s not exactly like what you do, but maybe close enough? You give it a try.
I’m a monogamous guy. I never did like dating—those with rejection complexes seldom do. When I find a publisher, I stay close. Then, inevitably, they begin sending rejection letters. The relationship has grown cold. I have trouble going back to past writers. I head back to the singles bar called Duotrope.
Are there really two of us in this duo? Nope.
Writing is like walking around naked. When journal after journal after journal says “no thanks,” you begin to wonder what’s wrong.
The biggest part of the problem, I think, is genre. People like recognizable genre. I don’t think in genre. I think in moods. In colors. In ideas. Is it magical realism or fabulism? Fantasy or literary fiction?
Once I had an interview where the woman asked “Do you express yourself better in speaking or writing?” Both, I said. She glared and nearly yelled—“That’s not an acceptable answer.” It was true, however. It’s like that with genres.
I don’t know what genre I write. I know that when I find a publisher who seems to get my darkness, my quirky sense of humor, and my unorthodoxy, I’ll plan to settle on down for a while. I’ve been doing this long enough to know, however, that literary divorce is as certain as the non-living paying their government dues.
After all, I write primarily for myself.
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