Historical fiction? Nope.
General fiction? Nope.
Slice of Life? Good god no!
kind of writer of am I is my genre? This question has been plaguing me for a while now. I guess it’s mostly because I’m trying to figure out where I’m going with my writing; if anywhere. I have edited this since my original posting after more thought – I think I’m more in a conundrum about my genre not if I’m a writer or not…
Am I going to write a book? I don’t know – I’ve loosely thought about that for most of my life – but I have no urge to write about anything in particular.
This follows a fairly consistent pattern in my life. And what would that pattern be, Denise? Well, doctor, it is to be good at something but have no urge to pursue it in a manner that is monetarily advantageous to me.
However, this is not a post regarding my anxieties about fears of success… it’s about my GENRE…and as with most things in my world, I wanted it to be clear cut, but alas it was not.
UNTIL… (I’m the queen of caveats)
As I was biking and listening to David Bowie’s “Andy Warhol” it occurred to me that I’m really not a writer. I’m a storyteller. I love to tell them and I love to write them. And that is my story.
I want to thank everyone that has been reading my stories- “THANK YOU!!” I have become very fond of all of you.
I’d like to leave you with the lyrics for “Andy Warhol” – which I believe sums up how I feel (in a non-creepy way, of course).
Like to take a cement fix
Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up
just for show
See them as they really are
Put a peephole in my brain
Two New Pence to have a go
I’d like to be a gallery
Put you all inside my show