Lately, the voices in my head have been shouting, screaming, cajoling, and bickering. Since I’ve written very little this year while I concentrate on publishing each character has decided to pop up at inopportune moments to pester me about when I’ll visit them again. I tell them to shush to no avail; they come back louder and more obnoxious. I love them so. Yet I worry about them, too, especially lately.
My imagination hasn’t found it’s usual outlet of going into my writing and so has contented itself with pouring out in the form of anxiety about my writing. Hooray! See, the worry and anxiety is wrapped around the thought that my books are so unusual. They cover many of the topics that others shy away from, or use as convenient and contrived devices, or deal with in ways that conform to the mainstream narrative (ha ha, see what I did there?). I talk about successful and unsuccessful polyamorous relationships without it being the focus of the story. I have characters of all sexualities who have rounded out personalities. I dive into the sex and violence drives. The people I wrote about go through existential crises and absurd situations.
Some people won’t like the multiple romance. Some people won’t like the many fantasy settings. Others will retreat from the philosophical and other random nerdy conversations my characters have. There are those who will complain about the short duration of many of the books. Most won’t realize that each series is connected and won’t understand the larger story being told. That world, those universes that branch out from the Black Tree series, is immense in my head. I have written and have planned some unrelated works yet this is a project that will likely go on for the rest of my life.
And I fear it will never reach those I intended it for. Big publishers will refuse it because it’s too out there. No one will hear of it because I suck at marketing (and have little funds to hire someone to do it for me). I feel as if my books will suffer my fate, banished to invisibility. My pact with myself to express my emotions more clearly prompts me to write this, as unprofessional or panicked as it seems. I don’t want the fear. So I am pushing on. I see my fear but I won’t let it cripple me. The best I can do is reach out to the few who might appreciate my unusual absurdist fantasy science fiction. I wrote these stories for people like me, for myself to heal, and for others who are left out. Maybe one day there will be a big publisher who deals in strange fiction. In any event, my left hand is twitching in its dire need to put ink upon paper. Let me write something then and worry about publishing some other time.