you know it’s odd. Here I am writing a novel that I lament and strange and fight with myself over…I think it’s a brave kind of thing, because it’s not a normal kind of thing, and who in their right mind would publish this kind of thing? So I write it anyways, never knowing, wanting to know but never knowing if when it’s all said and done if anything will come of it, or if it will hide in drawers and no one will ever see it…
then I read it and it’s like, okay, yes, I have to keep doing this. For myself, mostly, because this is what I want to write even if it’s not anything that anyone out there is looking at or for, this is something that feels like it’s me, and I need it, and it needs me, and what more is there than that? This of course all happened when I said no more to all those games those genre people play, with subgenres and market and that bad awful term accessibility thrown in for good measure. I mean, that word should be up there with fuck and etc in the bad words nobody ever speaks list. Accessibility- it’s like stabbing in the dark, like trying to lie to the reader, like trying to pretend the reader is stupid and nobody can understand anything in this here days of internets and twitterings and facebookery.
So I lament. I scream. I threaten to burn the book. It doesn’t like being threatened. When I threaten it it gets word teeth and sentence teeth and paragraph chompers and tries to bite me. I don’t like that, I could get an infection from these kinds of words.
Anyway, to form a sort of comfort or blanket of trust I read books that I like that are weird and broken and in the hopes that hey, this thing struggled its way to life and somebody out there decided to publish it and heynow that’s good for me. Books like Tenth of December, Kafka on the Shore, Wild Sheep Chase, Magic for Beginners, Stranger Things Happen, How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive… strange things surreal things things that I enjoy and who act like something is right in the world when these books exist. I remember like 10 years ago when I couldn’t find anything quite like these books so I thought “fuckitdamn hell I have to write what I want to read cause no one else seems to be doing it” then decade later or so I find these books and I go- AH I’m not alone in this fucking world anymore, I exist not in a vacuum but in a community of broken people…and that’s nice.
Anyway, so while I struggle away I found The Boy Detective Fails and I bought it because why not? Not knowing anything about it, but doing it anyway, not knowing what kind of book it was at all. Then I read and I”m like well hell yes why hell yes, this and this, and this and again, the loneliness fades and the struggle with the book and wanting to burn it fades and I feel not so alone in the dark hole of existence anymore, I feel apart of something again and that’s okay.
So I keep pushing words into glass and keep going. It might be another 2 years or so until this is finished, but that’s okay. I don’t think I’ve ever written anything quite like this (though close to it in my short stories- esp those in Glass Coffin Girls) and now I’m all right with that.