So your couplet of novellas from Dzanc Books, Could You Be With Her Now, is about (1) the first-person point-of-view of a developmentally disabled boy who mistakenly kills a neighborhood girl on whom he has crush; and (2) a May-December romance between two women. Not gunning for The Notebook crowd with these, huh?
I’m just hoping my mother reads the back cover before she buys copies for her friends as Christmas presents. I feel like we’ve gone through this awkwardness before with my writing.
Why do I write? Why do I write commercially unsuccessful fiction? I don’t think you choose what you get to write. For better or for worse, it chooses you.
A lot of teeth-grinding out there about the state of publishing, or not being published by the big publishers. Or something.
Well, of course it’s my dream to ink a six-book deal with one of the biggies for millions, or even one book, but I write because, in some way, writing is my disease. It’s not a choice; I am compelled to do it, otherwise I don’t function properly. My brain doesn’t feel right; how I process information isn’t being used and I become mentally and emotionally constipated. I think Camus said something about writing being a disease in his Notebooks, but I can’t find the excerpt. The rest of it, the publication, awards, respect, money, is fun, but I have been writing since I was five, long before I ever realized there could be a career in it. (And a year before that, I was convinced I was going to be an elephant when I grew up, so that tells you all you need to know about my career choices.)