I was at a book reading/signing the other day for a debut novel of a mystery author. A Sherlock Holmesian crime novel. Straight, full on, mystery genre. So why is it that when he asked me what I write, I got all flustered and didn’t want to tell him “fantasy”?
I am very proud of what I write. I love entering a world of magic and dragons, where the impossible is possible. I like having the power to make dreams come true – not only mine, but readers who have always wanted to play with hellhounds or have coffee with demons (I have some weird friends, okay?).
What I also have, apparently, is a lack of confidence to tell people that I enjoy it. As if it’s something beneath the high literature of…what? Mystery? Romance? Literary fiction? It’s all ridiculous, because there are no superior or inferior genres. The only thing that matters, that should matter is the quality of the writing and the story. The idea of dancing with corporeal Death may not appeal to some readers, but that doesn’t invalidate the idea.
So really, I’m ranting at myself. I’m mad at myself for feeling less than I should about what I do. So today, from this moment, I’m going to throw my cape about my shoulders, hide a dagger in my boot and take my sidekick-troll named Chester by my side to exclaim to the world that I WRITE FANTASY NOVELS and I’m proud of it