Ever since I could read (I started at the age of three), I would fall asleep with a book or two, or ten, close by my head. I would imagine their words whispering their promises of great and fantastic adventures in my youthful and naïve ears. But the selection of the literature I chose from my local library troubled my mother, the far-away...
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Ever since I could read (I started at the age of three), I would fall asleep with a book or two, or ten, close by my head. I would imagine their words whispering their promises of great and fantastic adventures in my youthful and naïve ears. But the selection of the literature I chose from my local library troubled my mother, the far-away tales of princesses and dragons were never in my grasp. Only the dark faeries of my dreams were the ones I chose. I enjoyed reading Edgar Allan Poe over and over again, and the same went for authors like Neil Gaiman, Tamora Pierce, or Cornelia Funke. These were the men and women who filled my head and soul with their twisted, unique tales. And in knowledge of this, I realized when I began writing for a job and a career the genres I excelled in, were the same ones as my childhood heroes. This spurred me onward, full speed ahead, not stopping for anything or anybody. My family’s criticism was past me now, and I did not give a darn if they believed I would end up living in a cardboard box. That was all minute to me now, because now I was doing what I had been born to do, something I will always love and put before other important facts of life, such as getting married or eating.
But of course, everyone has their bad days, and for authors, it’s almost twice as terrible. We have the words on our tongues, but they seem to be pasted there, as if by mother’s infamous oatmeal. And there are no words to explain the utter relief when the time of writer’s block passes away, like dark thunder clouds being blown away by a cheerful wind. It is during this time that my best work shines through, and I feel like I have accomplished something God-breathed. And recently, about two weeks ago, I discovered I was terribly flexible with writing different genres. I tried my hand at writing a historical short story, the plot was fueled by a recent movie I had watched, a documentary if you will. The Last Days of Sophie Scholl was a story that captured me mind and heart, and turned me towards reading more World War Two books. Soon, plots began to evolve inside my mind, blooming at drastic rates like the pretty flower covered vines that ruin a trees trunk. And that is exactly what they were, ideas that were honed from a devastating time in our history as a country, but made to look enticing and lovely.
I find that I have been mixing genres, and not writing a novel with one flavor or feel to it. It bores me to stay in one place, to duck tape myself into a certain box and stay there for my entire writing career. I would be bald before I reached my early twenties. So this is the reason why my genres are so muddled and mixed together. For instance, I have more than two novels that are both contemporary and fantasy. The same goes for the rest of the genres I write gothic, horror, suspense, historical, experimental, adventure, humor. They are all mixed together, and I find I prefer it that way; it makes it more of a thrill ride for me and my readers alike.
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