Fearless [Arc II]: Day 65 - I fear for this

The deeper I get into writing this novel (Fearless, that is), the more I wonder whether I can really call this thing a "romance novel."

I think that the drama of human relationships is what I do best in my writing. At least, it's what I enjoy the most when I write. Of course, I have fun with humour and description and word-play (perhaps too much, at times), but what really resonates with me in stories are the connections that occur between people. Many of these connections deal with love and sexuality, because they're adults, and because it's what I've found fascinating in my own adult relationships...not to mention, it can be just plain titillating to read (and write!) that stuff. But then I read something that made me rethink myself.

"The Red Pen of Doom" by @speechwriterguy is a fine weblog about writing in general, whether it's journalistic, fiction, or typing in a blog. I genuinely recommend it, because it approaches the craft of writing with honesty and humour...which you need in spades in this game. (It's far more entertaining than most of our ramblings or even finer works, certainly more informative than this place I use to get down ideas in the middle of the early morning.)

Anyway, one of the articles at "The Red Pen of Doom" has to do with romance novels. It's a funny, witty piece about how they are, in actuality, a love song to the male of the species. Go and read it here; I'll wait. And read the comments, too, because that's what's driven me to post this.

Now that you've got that little pearl of wisdom about what romance novels are really about, and what romance novelists think of their own genre, let me get back to my dilemma.

Since the beginning - since I first imagined that moment when Ross is sitting on the beach and looking out over the water he trusts more than anything, promising himself that no woman is worth the heartbreak he's suffered at the hands of the last two...but then, of course, falls for pretty little Amber, who nearly breaks his heart in another way - I've called Fearless a romance novel. But, now, after reading that article and those comments, I'm just not certain I can count this story among that number.

Like the stories I've always enjoyed, Ross's story is about love, and lust, and learning, and strength of heart and purpose, and finding the wherewithal within oneself to be better, not for any reason save for the sake of the person you love. It has romantic elements, yes (and plenty of them, both tender and smuffy), and the hero gets to become, over the course of the story, a real hero. Not quite the kilt-wearing, sword-swinging kind, but the kind who's willing to stay when things get ugly, and to fight, too, when fighting means not giving up.

But is it a romance story? I just don't know any longer.

It is still the story that I want to tell. It is still the beautiful bit of heartache that I want to share, not only to show my friends that I can write more than the terrible werewolf porn I wrote as an angsty university student, but because these people mean something to me. Because they're a part of me, I guess. I don't need to write novels for a living or go on talk shows to discuss the origins of my ideas or any of that. I just want this one story to share; I want this one story to be good. After that, I'll happily go back to playing in the pond of Doctor Who fan fiction or whatever.

But I do want this story out there. And now, I don't know where it should go. If you have any insight, please let me know? (And, before you ask: No, I won't put a sword in Ross's hand. That's for another story.)

Fearless [Arc II]: Day 62 - Measuring up

I've kind of given up on the word-counter measurement in a public forum, since I'm so far behind (at about 112K as I write this). I still think that I can probably wrap up the story proper by 150K, though. And I am tracking how many words I write per day, since that seems to help me stay on-track with the whole thing.

But that's not what I came to talk about. This is what I came to talk about:

I can't believe that I'm still obsessing over hit statistics.

:/

Yes, even after the craziness that hit statistics caused for my life during my writing of 1 More Chance!, I'm still caught up in the stupid things. It doesn't even really measure anything, except that someone happens to click into a particular chapter of the story. It doesn't mean that they read that chapter, or were moved by it, or have anything to say about it (because they're not leaving me feedback). They could have even just stumbled upon some random link somewhere and clicked through because they were curious or clumsy.

Yet, even though they mean fuck-all, I'm still checking those idiotic click-logs.

I think because I was never very popular, and I'm under the mistaken impression that popularity makes my story better...when I know Goddamn well that many popular stories are really, really terrible and some of them even have mediocre writing (hello, Twilight!), and just because lots of people look at it or leave lots of reviews, it doesn't necessarily mean that the story is any good. It just means that it's getting attention, for one reason or another. Maybe because of the title. Maybe because of the summary. Maybe because it's shouting, "M/M SLASH! YAOI! LEAVE REVEIWS [sic] PLEEZE!" right there on the front page.

And I've always said that I would much rather have only one person read my story and genuinely enjoy it and give me thoughtful feedback on it (because that shows that you've actually read the damn thing), than a hundred people who just glance through and not really give a shit (or give one of those frankly pointless reviews that say only, "Write more soon!").

But still here I stand, in the middle of my storm, waiting for someone to say something. And for what? For what, really? I really should just get back to work, and forget about the masses, and do what I'm always telling other people to do: to pull yourself up by your boot straps and hop back up into your saddle and silence every naysayer and just fucking write. Because that's all I can really do, at the end of the day, no matter what the masses want or demand or whine about.

It's just what I do.