Since I last wrote, I have been away on holiday (the Picos de Europa, since you ask, a truly stunning place) and doing some hard thinking about my writing.
My first novel, as yet unpublished, was an exploration of the effects of childhood abuse throughout adult life, highlighting how you can make progress but never entirely escape the shadow and the systemic modelling of a skewed upbringing. As it progressed, it also became a close look at complex PTSD, the almost inevitable result of an authority figure abusing a dependent child.
I chose to write this as fiction because, as an autobiography or a factual book, it risked being a misery-fest, and I didn’t want that. I wanted an unflinching examination, but one with some levity, some humour, and some inspiration. It had to be fiction, even if reflecting reality. Two weeks ago, I put the finishing touches on it, proofed it, and formatted it for submission.
It was only then that I suddenly saw the truth. ‘Unflinching’ had become ‘raw,’ and the explicit nature of the text had caused it to veer into dark psychological fiction, which was not what I had set out to do. I wanted it to be accessible, despite its deep message.
Meanwhile, my historical romance was also ready to be proofed and formatted. This story is essentially an exploration of the disempowerment of women, but written with those same objectives of accessibility, inspiration, humour, and general appeal. But again, I had that exact same insight: it was too raw, too explicit, too demanding. Certainly for a romance.
I don’t generally make a habit of flogging dead horses, but I had to accept that for the last few years, I had been trying too hard to shoehorn both of my books into existing genres, refusing to accept that they just wouldn’t fit. It was high time, I thought, to let reality intrude and finally accept that these two books as they stood were not going to make it. They had no established genre and no clear market.
It was a heavy blow. Six years of work written off. At least three of them spent chasing an impossible dream that I perhaps should have seen through much earlier.
Happily, I have managed to reframe it. Writing these books has been a continuous learning experience, and if I overshot the mark, well, that is better than churning out mediocrity. With fresh insight, I understood that the core stories behind both projects were completely valid—it was just that the elements breaking the boundaries of genre and acceptability were actually unnecessary. Skilled writing doesn’t need shock value to tell a story; that had been my mistake.
Had I grown up enough as an author, I asked myself, to tell a story with the same level of depth without crossing those boundaries? Could I adequately portray the difficult subject of childhood abuse without being horrifying? Could I do it within the container of a socially acceptable genre?
I decided I could. I can write both stories as book club or upmarket women’s fiction, wrapping a little cosiness around the sharp edges. Not only does this comfortably push my writing into an established genre, but it makes it more relatable. And that is key.
Perhaps, after six years of self-study, I have finally come of age as a writer. I hope so. I do want this to work out.
Good luck with your revisions to take your fiction to the place looking for it to be.