Not too long ago I was involved in a discussion on an internet forum where I am a long-time member, in which I expressed an opinion about the writing process, basically. And someone responded to me to say, basically, that I obviously expected everyone to give my opinions more weight because of my publishing record, and that it seemed to this person that I expected everyone to listen to me not because I was right but because I thought being published meant I knew better than everyone else; this person felt that I was acting like my opinions were facts and relying on my credentials to make others think so too.

Now. For the record, I know some of you may have seen that discussion and I want to make it very, very clear that the person who said that is entitled to his/her opinions and feelings and that I am absolutely NOT trying to “bring the discussion here,” or berate or belittle them in any way. I’m not. Not one bit.

My reason for mentioning it here is because it so perfectly illustrates the point I want to make today and the discussion I want to have, which is that once you are published you are no longer “a reader;” not because you’ve stopped reading (hopefully), but because other people see you differently. Readers see you differently. Maybe not all of them, no; I certainly can’t speak for every reader in the world (or any of them, for that matter; they can speak for themselves, and who am I to decide I’m their champion or something?). But for many of them…you have become “an author.” A different sort of animal.

I don’t base this statement just on that one experience. I’ve seen not just evidence of this but people actively stating it for years. I’ve seen writers accused repeatedly, in all sorts of venues, of thinking their opinions should carry more weight or that they’re more important or whatever else, when they speak up in reader forums.

Now, while I can say with certainty that I’ve never expected any reader to give a flying goddamn about my opinion, and I’m willing to bet most authors don’t expect it either (although see next PP), I also don’t think I’m in any position to tell them they’re wrong for feeling that way. How do I know that I didn’t suddenly start coming across like I expected that? I don’t. And it doesn’t matter. What matters is that at least some readers feel that way; at least some of them feel frankly bullied whenever authors enter the conversation or express their point of view. What matters is that a lot of them don’t give a shit about our point of view (and why should they?). And what matters is that they are absolutely perfectly entitled to feel that way.

And to be fair, what matters is that I’ve seen more than one author act like that is indeed the case and readers should all listen and pay attention and care and see things from their POV. Well, gee, we saw it five times in the past ten days, didn’t we? What are these “What do you know, you non-constructive-review-giving-peon?” internet scandales if not authors expecting readers to care about them or what they think above what the reader cares about or thinks? Every time an author pulls the oh-so-irritating “You need to remember that’s someone’s heart and soul/baby you’re reviewing and act accordingly” whine out of their entitled asses, that author is telling readers that readers are obligated to care about them; frankly, they’re telling readers that the writers’ feelings are more important than the readers’, IMO.

(Sadly, I can’t even just say these authors tend to be the same types of amateurs who make their sisters leave them glowing reviews online, because we’ve seen some major-house authors pull this shit, which is so intensely depressing I can’t stand it. Sigh. Every time an author has a tantrum, Satan shoots a puppy. Or something like that. Please, authors, won’t you think of the puppies?!)

Anyway. The point is, I honestly don’t believe my thoughts or the way I express myself has changed since I became published. I certainly don’t think being a low-midlister at best who writes books that have inspired hate mail for their subject matter means I have any sort of special entitlement to be listened to or heard or that it makes my opinion so much more worthy of attention than anyone else’s. But I can definitely see how just the fact that I have been published means readers don’t really want me around, and it makes sense to me. Why? Because readers want readerspace. Readers want to talk to other readers who share their outlook.

And to be frank, I don’t share that outlook anymore, not entirely, no matter how much I want to or try. Neither do you, Published Person. This is why I’m no longer A Reader. Even when I read.

See, for one thing, I’m aware of how publishing works, and more than that, my opinions on matters like ebook pricing and Amazon and whatever else are by necessity colored by the fact that I make a living from that industry. That doesn’t mean I automatically advocate high ebook prices or something (though it does mean I understand that printing costs saved by ebooks are eaten up in part by digital storage/transfer/etc costs), but it does mean that it’s harder for me to be objective when there are discussions about industry practice. Just as there are unpublished authors who complain about things that make perfect sense to me (like rejections without explanation), there are readers who dislike things that make perfect sense to me. Does that mean I think readers are stupid? Of course not. Does it mean I don’t think they have a right to their opinions? Of course not.

It just means our outlooks on some issues are different. That’s the way it is.

I also don’t read like I used to; I don’t read like a reader, not the way I did before I started writing. This, I believe, is a change that started the first time I picked up a book not as a fun way to spend my time, but as a guide to How It’s Done. (And note: NONE of the points I’m about to make should be taken to imply that I don’t think readers read critically or know good stories or writing or whatever else. I’m explaining how my personal process changed and making a generalization from that–and from the fact that every writer I’ve discussed it with has mentioned it, and it’s a common topic on writing forums–that most writers’ processes change; it’s not meant in any way to imply that readers don’t know good writing or whatever.)

It’s a lot harder for me to read these days. I don’t look at writing the way I did; it’s harder to get caught up in a story because I’m seeing technical faults, I’m seeing how I would have done or phrased it differently (that’s a big huge one). I rewrite sentences in my head. I’m more impressed by great sentences and far more annoyed by bad ones, and mediocre writing can and will ruin a book for me in a way it wouldn’t have ten years ago. Actually, I can’t even list all the ways that writing with an eye to publication changed my reading; there are so many of them. And while I believe that we all want the same thing–great books, easily available–I also believe that in some ways (however small) our outlooks are fundamentally different.

Not to mention that writing and reading are such deeply personal processes anyway. In what way does one’s view of books change when one is writing with an eye toward publication? Does it change again when one is published, and how? Of course every reader’s opinion is colored by their own personal viewpoints; that’s why reviews are valuable. But are the changes that happen when one starts writing for publication really beneficial to readers? (Does it matter?)

So what does this mean, in terms of my relationships as a reader to other readers? Does it make my opinion any more or less valuable (and again, does it matter)? Could I even write an effective review because of my different viewpoint (leaving out for the moment the obvious fact that I have a right to my opinion too blah blah blah, that’s not the point)?

And do readers care what I think?

As I said above, I think there are definitely readers out there who want reader-only spaces. I’ve seen countless complaints about how when readers find a good place to hang out authors start showing up, and it’s an intrusion, like how even the coolest parent is an intrusion at a teen-only event. Authors showing up in reader spaces make readers uncomfortable. We don’t belong there, at least, that’s what I’ve seen many readers say and what I personally feel to a large extent. The simple fact that we are writers colors the way readers see us and perhaps the way we express ourselves; maybe not all of us, but some of us. We can’t control entirely how others see us, frankly. We can be the most pro-reader writers in the world but we’re still writers, and there very well may be readers there who see that and just think “get the fuck off my blog, dude, I didn’t write this post for you.” And they have every right to think that.

I can only think how I would feel if I was on a forum dedicated to, say, shoes. And a bunch of shoe makers kept showing up and joining in. Yeah, in some ways they’d be welcome, but I can also see myself thinking at least part of the time that my conversation wasn’t meant for them, it wasn’t written for them, it was my attempt to relate to and discuss subjects with other consumers, not manufacturers. And I can only imagine this must be how some readers view writers who turn up on reader blogs and in reader forums.

I wonder too if this changes before or after someone is published. How do readers see unpublished vs. published writers, if there is a difference? Is the mere fact of a writer showing up seen as an indicator that they think their opinion is more important; do they seem like they’re trying to dominate the conversation? Readers, how do you really feel when writers join the discussion–does it make a difference what kind of discussion it is?

And since we started all of this by talking about how writers need to back off and quit trying to tell readers how to review, how to look at their work, how to relate to it, how to relate to them personally, or whatever else…how do *you* see reviews written by authors? Are they more or less trustworthy? Again, does it make a difference if it’s an aspiring author or a published one, and is there a level of publishing where that changes (like, do you see someone who just sold a novel to Books of Love Startup Ehouse in the same way as someone who just sold their book to Penguin)? Do you see them as a writer or reader or both? How does that change the way you see them, or does it?

So anyway. Yes. I’ve seen lots of people being very nasty about Amy Winehouse.

But here’s what today’s focus is. I’ve also seen so many comments about the music and the lyrics, and the fact that Amy kept fighting, kept putting herself out there. How much it mattered to people, how much seeing their feelings mirrored mattered to them and how much it helped them when they were feeling down. And it made me start thinking about what art is, how it can touch people, and what the responsibility of the artist is, if any.

Obviously in this I can only speak for myself. I certainly can’t call myself a great artist; I do the best I can yes, and I work as hard as I can to put something of myself, something as important and meaningful as I can, into my work. I try to make it matter; certainly it matters to me. Regular readers may recall (alliteration is fun!) that I blogged about this whole genre-fiction/personal-investment-in-art thing before, here and here.

You guys may also recall that several months ago I decided to stop writing about writing/publishing–to step back on the blog in general, really–after something I meant as a general piece of take-it-or-leave-it advice, a small part of a much bigger cautionary tale about the realities of the internet and being published in a world where the internet exists and you’re expected to use it, was taken so much more strongly, so much more intensely, than I intended, and I became the center of something of a kerfuffle for writing what so many of the people who disapproved of what I wrote also said and have said: Be careful what you say online, because the internet is public and whatever you say can and will be misinterpreted, talked about, picked on, and dissected, and you personally will be harshly judged and criticized for it.

Anyway. The response I got shocked me; I was attacked on blogs and websites, I was attacked on Twitter, I was attacked in email. My words were mischaracterized to the point of being unrecognizable. I was made fun of and called names. A piece of advice I gave specifically to aspiring writers was taken as applying to readers and reader-reviewers, which especially shocked me since I’ve always been very vocally supportive (to the point where it’s cost me friendships) of the rights of readers to say whatever they like about whatever book(s) they read, and had tried in my post to make very clear that I wasn’t speaking about them and I certainly wasn’t saying anyone didn’t have the right to say whatever they wanted about a book.

Long story short (too late) I was stunned and hurt, and frankly, I’ve been stunned and hurt by the internet a few too many times in the last year or so; not by comments about my books but by comments about me personally. It’s frankly terrifying to find people you don’t know, who don’t know you, making fun of you on Twitter and inviting tons of other people who you also don’t know and who don’t know you to join in. It’s awful to get nasty comments and emails not about what you said or wrote, but about what they were told you said or wrote. It’s awful to ask a few innocent (you think) questions of someone, and find people calling you names and talking about what a huge bitch you are and how everyone hates you because of it. It’s not fun to make a general comment somewhere, something that would have passed without comment a year or two before, but for which you are suddenly accused of massive ego and arrogance. It’s upsetting. It’s painful. I’m just one person, one who fucks up on occasion, one who’s acted on impulse and later regretted it, one who’s made mistakes, one whose words can be misinterpreted no matter how clearly I and hundreds of others think they’re phrased. One who isn’t perfect just like none of us are perfect.

It just wasn’t worth it, to keep being attacked like that. It made me rethink a lot of things; it made me decide to take a step back, because I was tired of feeling like there was a big target on my back and people were just waiting for me to say something else they could pick on and attack me over (note: I doubt they actually were, but it felt that way). I was tired of being made to feel bad about myself, of seeing people discuss how I was a bitch, an asshole, an idiot, an unprofessional cunt with a terrible reputation (no one I actually work with or have ever worked with or who even knows anyone I work with or have worked with said this, by the way; I have to admit the source on that one made me roll my eyes). To be perfectly honest, I’ve had a difficult time writing anything this last year or so, and part of me wonders if that isn’t because subconsciously I’m tanking myself so I don’t have to go through all of that again.

But seeing all of the comments from people, from other women, this weekend about how much it meant to them to see another woman putting herself out there, being herself no matter what kinds of shit she got for it, about how that inspired them and gave them strength…that’s made me rethink things a bit.

Certainly I’m not a big star. I don’t have one-eighth the following or audience Amy Winehouse had. Not one-tenth of one-eighth. I’m pretty much nobody (which frankly makes the overblown responses to me doubly confusing; I see bigger sellers–bigger names with bigger followings–than me say all kinds of things that go basically unnoticed, it seems. I certainly see male writers saying whatever they like and not being slammed all over the internet for it). I still don’t understand why anyone really gives a shit what I have to say, why anyone needs to pass it on and gossip about it. If you disagree with me that’s fine, but why the attacks? Why not just shrug and go about your business? Why am I so important to you–why is anyone so important to you–that you need to make a huge issue out of it? I’m not Glenn Beck making disgusting comments comparing the murdered children in Norway to Hitler Youth and I’m not anyone with any real influence in policy-making or decision-making in any organization or industry; I’m just a writer talking about my experience(s), or asking a few questions, or making a comment about something, while freely admitting they may not be the same as the experiences of others, explaining the reasoning behind the questions, and acknowledging that others may have different opinions, and nothing I say is that big a deal.

But maybe I don’t have to be some sort of huge name to still make a difference. I started doing things like posting at Absolute Write’s Bewares forum (years ago now) because I wanted to help aspiring writers avoid some of the traps I’ve seen others fall into, and avoid the traps I myself fell into early in my career. I’ve tried to take a stand on certain issues, and step into certain issues, because I always figured, you know, I’d rather they attack me than someone else. If Puny Epublisher A is going to start making their ridiculous “blackball” threats, I’d rather they make them at me (to whom their threats mean absolutely nothing) than someone just starting out who doesn’t actually understand how ludicrous those threats are, or who might be genuinely hurt or scared. And I still feel that way, even after seeing those comments about me, even after seeing my name dragged through the mud by someone with a personal vendetta because I dared to ask a couple of questions. Yeah, I’ve gotten some nasty emails in the past year or so. I’ve also gotten hundreds of wonderful emails from readers who love my books, to whom my books mean something. I’ve gotten dozens of wonderful emails from other writers who I helped.

So here’s what this enormous long post is actually about, if anyone is still reading. I’m thinking I need to put my money back where my mouth is, and quit trying to protect myself. I’m thinking that if I expect or want my work to mean anything to anyone I need to put myself out there, and keep doing it; I need to be myself and keep making it mean something. I’m thinking that maybe if more of us do that we can build our own little world, we can create something strong and good, and we can bring a little more happiness and acceptance along with us. A little more understanding and forgiveness.

The thing is, I see this blog as a way to communicate with my readers–those who’ve read my books and came here to learn more about them, and maybe a bit more about me, if they want. I think my books, especially the Downside books, have a lot of me in them already, really; if you’ve read them you probably already know something about me, you probably already know me to some extent. I think if you like the books chances are you’ll like me; I think if you don’t like them chances are you probably won’t, and if you disapprove of them you probably disapprove of me, too.

But everything I write here is addressed to my readers, really. Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it; maybe I should be worrying about those people who stumble across the blog and see something about me or the books for the first time. It probably is the wrong way to look at it, to assume that the people reading your blog are already familiar with your work. Certainly thinking of my blog as a place where I communicate with people who are already aware of my work has gotten me into trouble before.

So what do I owe those readers–what do I owe you, when it comes to the blog, and what do you want to see? What do you think the purpose of a writer’s blog is, and what do you expect from it?

Say I’m neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tounge -
Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
And I’ll get me another man!

–Dorothy Parker

Authors shouldn’t respond to reviews. That’s fine. Most of us don’t. We understand that reviews are for readers, not for writers. I don’t even like the “they can be helpful/constructive” because no, they really aren’t constructive, and they don’t help me, and more to the point, they don’t have to be. There is absolutely no reason in the world why a reader should have to remember a writer’s “feelings” when writing a review. There is absolutely no reason in the world why a reader shouldn’t say whatever they like about a book. It’s totally allowed.

But more to the point…who allows it? Nobody. There have been writers out there who’ve been shitty about “amateur” reviewers, and gone around huffing and puffing that they shouldn’t be listened to, or that no one should be allowed to write negative reviews ever, or whatever other self-entitled silliness. Funnily enough, last time I checked that didn’t actually stop anyone from blogging their opinion of a book, or from reading that blogged opinion and giving it whatever consequence the reader chose. Last time I checked, no gang of writers in a black windowless van started making the rounds of reviewers’ homes, grabbing them off the street and releasing them, naked, in a public park several miles away after telling them they won’t be writing any more reviews if they know what’s good for them, dig?

Last time I checked, a reader did not need a writer’s permission to read whatever they liked, and to say about it whatever they liked. So why the idea has come about that writers can or somehow are trying to “censor” readers, I don’t know. Where the idea came that the opinion of writers on that subject matters worth a fidder’s damn, I don’t know either.

Readers can say whatever they want.

Writers cannot.

I accept that. As I’ve said before, I knew that getting into this. I knew there were a lot of subjects I could no longer be myself on. Frankly, it’s a privilege to be in that position, and I’m grateful for it. Of course, I foolishly believed that standing up for readers every time the situation arose would mean people would remember that later; I foolishly believed that going out of my way for people, that being a good person, would mean something, but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is, I totally understand, accept, and whole-heartedly approve of the idea of writers staying away from reader reviews, and keeping their mouths shut regarding opinions of them. Fine. Just as I don’t have any overwhelming need to review books on my blog, nor do I have an overwhelming need to blog about readers and their reviews. I mention them, yes, because as I’ve said before, when a reader shows appreciation for my work I like to repay that; they work hard on their reviews. I want to give them credit for that work and let them know how much I value it, and them. Some of them–most of them–are damn good writers, and it makes me proud to have such smart and awesome people recommend my work. I won’t stop doing that, either, because my readers are important to me.

But the only real thing I’ve ever said on the subject is that readers can say whatever they want. Then I said readers who review and wish to become writers–who review as part of their aspiring writer persona–might want to be aware that they could find some writers who aren’t really eager to do them favors if they’d been negatively reviewed in the past. Funnily enough, last time I checked a favor was just that: a favor, something people are under zero obligation to do for someone else, and can turn down for any arbitrary reason. “I don’t feel like getting my lazy ass off the couch” is an acceptable excuse to refuse a favor, frankly, so I’m not sure how this is different. Favors aren’t obligations.

And for a long time things have been pretty smooth. But now? Now I’m finding that not only is it not okay for me to respond to reviews publicly, not only is it not okay to respond to them privately, but I’m not even allowed to have feelings about them.

Sure enough, the “My books aren’t me and they’re totally separate from me and I’m so professional and detached that I don’t care what people say” crowd leaps in to prove how much more professional they are than those of us who admit negative reviews can be hurtful or sad or disappointing, as if they’re far better than us pussybaby freaks with an emotional attachment to our work. That their work isn’t them, and they are totally detached from it, as if it was something they spat into the sink, because they’re True Professionals.

Sorry, but no.

I fully accept that not everyone is going to love my books or even like them. I know that. I can take it. I knew going into this business that there would be people who don’t like it. I’m happy to stand back and not engage. I don’t let them have their say–it’s not up to me–but I’m glad they have it. More power to them. I have never once tried to quiet another person or keep them from expressing their opinion.

What I will not stand for is the idea that not only can I not reply, not only can I not reply privately, but it’s not even okay for me to feel something about a review. Even feeling privately hurt or upset or down is now wrong and unprofessional. And fuck that.

My books are not my babies. I have babies. I have books. They’re different. But you bet your ass my books are part of me. Every word on every page came from me. Every word on every page matters to me.

Now it’s not supposed to.

Or at least, it’s not supposed to if I write genre fiction. I’ve found a few articles/discussions about literary fiction writers who made the Mistake; funnily enough, no one writing those articles or commenting on them implied that it was wrong of the writer to even feel bad about the review. It was understood that their work was important to them, that they would care about the response it gets, that they would have opinions on those responses. No other literary fiction authors jumped in to say how ridiculous they were for wanting people to like their books, or for feeling kinda bad when they didn’t. It would never occur to most people that those writers aren’t supposed to be personally invested in their work. (For that matter, it would never occur to most people that anyone isn’t supposed to be personally invested in their work. I worked at a Dairy Queen once in high school; I made the best damn Strawberry Shortcakes and Peanutbuster Parfaits you ever saw. My Dairy Queen curl was always perfect. Why? Because I cared. Because I liked the satisfaction of knowing I’d put something of myself into my work, to give someone else the best possible experience.)

And I ask you to show me someone whose boss told them their work wasn’t good enough, wasn’t acceptable, who didn’t feel the slightest twinge of sadness or pain because of that. It’s expected that people will be a bit hurt. It’s expected that they react professionally; no screaming “Shut up, asshole!” It’s expected that they not take it hugely personally and freak out, or be inconsolable for months, or tell that person they’re obviously morons, but it’s expected that it might be a bit hurtful.

But it seems that over the last few years, and of course especially the last couple of weeks, there’s this attitude–sometimes spoken, sometimes implied–of “It’s not like your work is important. You only write genre fiction, you know. It’s not important, what you do. You only churn out a product. So shut up about your feelings.”

You know what? I think that’s utter bullshit. I think if you can detach from your books that completely, maybe you’re not really putting enough of yourself into that book.

My books are not a churned-out product. My books are not a fucking TPS report that’ll go in the shredder as soon as the boss gets a glance at the numbers. My books are not a paint-by-numbers picture of a unicorn that anyone can put together.

My books are mine. My books are me. I’m in there. I’m in every word and every page and every character. Megan? Me. Chess? Especially me. My past. My outlook. My dreams. My thoughts on the world and people in general. My books are what they are because I make them that way. They come from my conscious mind; they come from my subconscious. They speak to parts of me I’m familiar with and parts I don’t know exist.

In other words, my books are me stripped bare. My heart and soul is on every page of every book. They are part of me.

Why? Because I think I owe it to you. Because you as a reader want something, and I want to give it to you. You want a book that will make you think and feel; that is what I want to give you. And how the fuck can I expect to make you feel, really feel, if I’m not feeling when I write it? How can I expect you to have an emotional reaction to my work when for me it’s just another fucking day at the office, whatever, toss out some words and who cares what they are because as soon as the book is finished I’ll emotionally disavow it anyway?

My books are not written according to some formula. My books are not thrown together with a “That’s good enough for the likes of them” sort of casualness, for me to dust off my hands when they’re done. My blood, my sweat, my tears, my pain, my joy, my thoughts, my feelings, go into every goddamn page. My books matter to me. They are important to me.

Yes, my books are genre fiction. So what? Does that mean they can’t be meaningful? Does that mean I have to shrug them off when they’re done, like they’re just some widget I built on an assembly line? Does that mean I’m not trying to say something big with them, that they don’t have a theme that’s important to me, that they aren’t a plea for change or a light being shone on something negative or anything else?

Some writers think we all should be able to completely detach from the book and not care if people like it at all, have it not effect them emotionally in any way. Well, just as they obviously think something is wrong with me and I’m unprofessional for caring if people like my work, I frankly think their work can’t be that damn good or meaningful if they’re so easily able to wash their hands of it and not care about how people take it. When I pour my heart into something I don’t just walk away when it’s done. When I really connect to something and it really matters to me, I don’t just shrug it off when it’s finished and forget it ever mattered. And I think it’s bullshit that I should be expected to. Fuck that.

Yes, it’s just genre fiction. Yes, of course there will always be people who don’t connect with certain books or characters. We all know that; it’s a given, and it’s fine. But don’t you dare tell me that because I just write genre fiction I’m not allowed to care about my books, and the only professional way to write genre fiction is to view it as some sort of toenail clipping, something that came from me but to which I have no attachment whatsoever.

My work matters to me. My work is part of me. I put everything I have and everything I can into my work.

Quite frankly, if I don’t feel deeply when I’m writing it, if I don’t dig deep and push myself and expose everything I can…how the hell can I expect readers to feel something when they read it?

They deserve everything I can give them. And I deserve to not be ridiculed for caring about my work in the privacy of my own home. Because I will never stop caring about my work, and I will never stop trying to make it the best it can be.

An endnote. This will be my last post on writing/writerly topics. I’m tired of it and I’m done. It’s not worth it to me. Yes, I know the people who read and enjoy my books are smart enough to know what I’m actually saying and not what some alarmist claims I’m saying. Yes, I know those who read this and haven’t read my work but know what I’m actually saying are just the sorts of people who probably will like my work. But giving time and energy and feelings to shit like this takes away from what I should be giving time and energy and especially feelings to, and that is my books. (This isn’t just related to stuff on the blog; you AW members may have a good idea of some other things that have contributed to it.) So I’m making some changes here on the blog, and that’s one of them. I will probably be blogging more often, but shorter posts, and I will no longer be commenting on things happening in the online writing world. I don’t want to be part of it anymore; I haven’t wanted to for a long time, actually. I’m happy to let other people have their opinions on things and rarely feel the need to challenge them; the same courtesy is not usually extended to me, and the way to avoid it is simply to stop posting opinionated things, and that’s what I’m doing.

I will always be open for suggestions on topics, and I will always be happy to answer questions here on the blog; I’d like to do that regularly, actually, so I encourage you all to ask away.

Personally I think most of those rules are crappity-crap-crap. And I’m sick of them all being passed around like Moses brought them down from the mountain. The fact is, if you write well and have a strong, stylish, commercial voice you can get away with just about anything.

But here’s one I agree with; in fact, one I believe in strongly. And I feel that it’s sadly, sadly misunderstood by many, which is why I’m going to discuss it.

See, I think there’s a belief out there, especially amongst beginning writers, that “write what you know” means that if you’re a farmer you should write about farming, or if you’re an office manager you’re not going to be able to write about the life of a wizard.

That’s not what it means.

“Write what you know” means write what you know emotionally. It means write what you understand and feel. It means write from the inside.

Great stories are important, yes. Great writing–or at least good writing–is important, yes. But what involves readers, what really makes them understand, identify with, and care about your stories–your characters–is making sure your characters are three-dimensional, fully developed people, with feelings. Your characters have to have emotional lives, because your readers have emotional lives. Your characters have to let their emotions color how they see the world, because your readers’ emotions color how they see the world. And your characters’ feelings and emotions, and their emotional desires and needs, have to be real and important to them, because your readers have emotional desires and needs that are very important to them.

I think I mentioned in an interview once that what really struck me about the responses to the Downside books was the way readers seem to either violently identify with and understand Chess, or violently dislike and not understand Chess at all. And I find the differences in those people, and the comments of the few I’ve seen who dislike her, are pretty interesting (to me, at least), in that their outlook on the world and the way they present themselves is one I often don’t understand or care for, either. That’s not to say it’s wrong or they’re a bunch of assholes; it’s also not to say that the only reason someone might not like my books or characters is because they’ve never felt that kind of alienation/loneliness/insecurity/dislike of self-satisfied people/aversion to being “normal” or whatever else. But it is something I’ve noticed.

When I started writing UNHOLY GHOSTS one of my main goals was to write a heroine I could identify with and understand, because I hadn’t seen any out there, really. I mean yeah, of course I wanted to write the most kick-ass different type of UF I could, but the reason why I cared about the book and the reason why the characters in it mean so much to me is because I worked really hard on giving them the feelings and emotions and outlooks that matter to me, that are what I understand. I know those feelings, and I know that outlook on the world, and I believe that’s why they were able to come across as clearly and strongly as they apparently did; it’s why those books are, frankly, deeply personal to me.

In other words, I wrote what I know.

I’ve been asked before what sorts of things I can’t/couldn’t write and I’ve always said I can’t really write happy people. I mean, of course I can write people who have found some happiness, or who have fun sometimes; no one wants to read a book where all the MC does is sit around moping and contemplating suicide. I’ve been unfortunate enough in the past to know a few truly negative people, the kinds of people who when I finally got away from them I was an absolute mess because just being around them was like being trapped inside a life-sucking black cloud of misery. That’s not good, and that’s something we all have to be careful with; certainly I find myself editing out some rather depressing little rambles on occasion.

Everyone has emotions and feelings. Everyone has their own unique way of looking at the world. You have to dig deep inside yourself and really feel those emotions, really think about how they affect the way you look at things. That’s what you put into your characters, and that’s what makes them real. If you’re giving your characters emotions or reactions you don’t understand or simply haven’t really thought about, the reader will know it. It will feel false, because it will be false. And false work means nothing to anyone; lies don’t resonate in the mind or the soul.

No, you might not know what it’s like to walk on the moon. But if you think about it, you probably do know how you felt when you achieved something amazing, or saw something that filled you with awe and wonder–even if it was something as simple as telling someone you love them or seeing Lord of the Rings for the first time. Those are the feelings you know. Those are the feelings you use.

“Write what you know” isn’t about the outside stuff, the plot or setting. “Write what you know” doesn’t mean your character has to do the same job as you, live the same life as you, and look like you. What it does mean is that your character has to feel–and have feelings–like an actual living person. It means those characters have to behave and react the way real living people would, and do.

Does it mean your character has to be just like you? No. But it does mean that if your character isn’t like you, you’re going to have to figure out how you differ and how you’re the same, and adjust your feelings accordingly, because they still have to be strong and real.

“Write what you know” means write from the heart. It means don’t be afraid to expose what needs to be exposed. Don’t be afraid to share something truly important, something truly meaningful, with your readers. Writing and reading should be about sharing; it should be about a universal experience the writer and reader share. It should be about feeling something, no matter what that something is. And if you aren’t feeling it, neither will your readers; if you’re lying they’ll know it, and it will at first confuse and then turn them off. They didn’t pay good money for something that rings false to them, that feels like manipulation, that feels like the writer didn’t think they were important enough to really work for. They didn’t pay good money to be fobbed off with something fake.

Writing fiction is telling a story, yes. But writing characters is telling a truth, and it’s your truth; the truth you know. You have to tell it as strongly, as deeply, and as well as you possibly can.

Book Chick City calls it “one of the best books [she's] ever read,” and says:

For me, Unholy Magic has the precise combination and balance of everything I love about the urban fantasy genre: action, romance, complex but likeable characters and world building. I adored this book so much from beginning to end – just perfect.

Smexy Books says:

Kane has written one of the most dark and disturbing Urban Fantasy’s I have read in a long time. This story drug me in, striped me bare, then rebuilt me page by page till the end. Enticing and addicting from page one…

5 out of 5 from The Fiction Vixen: In trying to come up with an adjective to describe the over all tone and feel of this story, I came up short. Gritty seems weak in reference to this book and just does not cover it. I had a brief twitter conversation about the Downside series and I eventually came up with this: Unholy Magic spits on gritty and calls its mother names. Yes, this book is that bad ass! Stacia Kane has written an amazing, spine tingling novel in Unholy Magic, taking me by surprise by surpassing even the brilliance of its predecessor Unholy Ghosts.

Last but certainly not least, we have Barnes & Noble’s Paul Goat Allen on the B&N Explorations blog, a man who’s been reading and reviewing fantasy for twenty years or so:

The bottom line is this – never before in paranormal fantasy have I read a series that features the combination of grand scale world building, labyrinthine storyline, superb character development, and social relevance. Stacia Kane’s Downside saga is taking paranormal fantasy to another level right before our eyes…

I challenge anyone who has never read a paranormal fantasy before to read this series – I’ll guarantee you that you never look at paranormal fantasy the same way again.

So, um, all of those are really nice to get.

But they do kind of have something to do with my art posts, honestly they do. Because yesterday the first post, But is it Art?was linked to on io9. Which was also pretty cool.

But I found the comments over there really interesting, in that so many of them seemed to automatically assume that you must compromise in order to get published, that it was necessary. That if you want to be published you have to expect you’ll be told to change things.

That hasn’t been my experience at all, frankly. While UNHOLY GHOSTS isn’t everything I’d envisioned it being when I started writing it, that’s my failure; I wasn’t asked to tone anything down or change anything fundamental about the story, characters, or world. Not one thing. Not in any of the Downside books, in fact. Not in any of the Demons books, either. Hell, DEMON INSIDE has a ritual cannibalism scene involving the hero of the series. Nobody asked me to take that out or tone it down or change it. Nobody has asked me to change or tone down anything I’ve written, frankly, with the sole exception of–as I’ve mentioned before–the incestuous rape scene in DEMON’S TRIAD, and that was perfectly understandable and perfectly okay with Anna and I; we’d inadvertently made it a bit sexier than it should have been and so needed to tone it down. That wasn’t a compromise. We weren’t asked to remove the rape, which was female-on-male. We were just asked not to make it titillating, and like I said, we were happy to do so.

That is honestly the only time in my entire career that I can think of where I was asked to change something in one of my books, and that’s not really a change at all. I’ve never had to give up on anything truly important to me. I honestly don’t know anyone who has.

Yes, saying that does sort of negate the whole point of the first post. And I think it’s important to remember that DEMON’S TRIAD was an X-rated ebook, sold with a warning; that scene very well may not have flown in NY, especially NY genre romance. UNHOLY GHOSTS and the Downside books are urban fantasies, which also give me a bit more leeway. As I said on Tuesday, if you want to write a cannibal love story (in mine, it was ritualistic and involved non-humans, remember) you may have problems. There are a lot of difficult subjects that you may indeed need to wait to write, until you have a bigger name or more solid standing.

But I also believe it comes down to the writing. I’d never sold to NY when I signed with my agent for UNHOLY GHOSTS, and the series was my first NY sale. I had no standing in the industry (not that I think I do now; I’m still nobody, really). But my agent and several editors felt my writing was strong enough, my story, characters, and worldbuilding compelling enough, that they didn’t care about the slightly difficult subject.

Which brings us full circle. Getting published isn’t about compromising. getting published is about writing. It’s about characters and story. Focus on those, and on being true to them and to yourself, and on giving your work that emotional depth and making it as strong as you possibly can. That’s how you get published, not by giving in or giving up or whatever.

Tomorrow I’m going to post the CITY OF GHOSTS playlist, I think, and a weekend SNeak Peek. I’m also thinking of a contest of some kind, to name a character in the fourth Downside book? Trying to think of a fun way to have people enter; I’m thinking of doing a Twitter contest using the #cityofghosts hashtag HarperVoyager already came up with. Thoughts? Anybody interested?

I think this perhaps happens a bit more in genre fiction. I do believe there’s a sense that literary fiction is more artistic, that it’s deeper and more expressive or whatever. I think literary fiction writers are allowed to “get away with” stuff genre fiction writers could never even attempt.

But why is that? Is it because we think genre fiction is easier to write? Anyone who’s tried to write it can tell you it’s not. Is it because we think since the stories have certain general tropes that they’re not as original, or again, that they’re easy to write? Maybe. Maybe there is a sense out there that genre fiction isn’t art because we’re just putting a bunch of elements together in the same way as everyone else does, and that it doesn’t require any real depth from the writer. Which, as we discussed a bit on Tuesday, I think is frankly bullshit. In order to create a fully fleshed-out character you have to do some digging. In order to create a real and complex world you need to do that. If you want to make your story mean anything to readers, elicit any emotion in readers, you need to elicit that emotion in yourself, which means digging deep and–again–being honest. You can’t hide or lie to readers in your work.

But I do think there’s a weird kind of pressure on genre fiction writers to not let on that they see themselves or think of themselves as artists. There’s a definite pressure to act like their art means nothing to them, like it’s an entity completely separate from them.

Think of it this way. If a painter has a gallery show, and a critic ravages his work, does anyone frown and kick up a fuss if the artist gets upset about it? Does anyone remind him that reviews don’t exist to make him feel better, but to inform art lovers whether or not his work is worth their time? Not as far as I know. People expect the artist to be upset about terrible reviews. They expect him to be temperamental; hell, we all know what the phrase “artistic temperament” means, don’t we?

Now, I am NOT, absolutely NOT, implying in any way that reviewers don’t have the right to say whatever they want about books, or that reviews aren’t for readers and not writers–they absolutely are–or that writers should be allowed to freak out all over the internet and threaten people or name crack whore characters after people who gave them bad reviews or whatever. No, no, no, I’m not saying that at all, not one bit; you all know how I feel about that. This post isn’t about reviewers or reviews, except insomuch as they can be another example of what I feel is the expectation that genre fiction writers not consider themselves artists, not think or talk about themselves as artists, and not act as though their art is important to them. Like caring about your work has become synonymous somehow with freak-out rants and threats, instead of just…caring about your work. I’m not implying in any way that this sort of pressure comes solely from reviewers or readers, either; it comes from other writers just as much if not more.

Let’s take the “book as baby” cliche. Now, I am 100% in favor of the “Your book is NOT your baby,” reply to that one. I’ve had two babies. I’ve written over a dozen novels. I can tell you they’re entirely different.

And yes, you should be able to distance yourself from your work to some extent. Your work isn’t you. People are going to have differing opinions about your work; some may love it, some may hate it. Just like some people like you and some people hate you, and we try to learn from an early age that a lot of peoples’ opinions just don’t matter, that the only people whose opinions we should care about are our families and close friends, our bosses, whatever. You know what I mean.

But at the same time, as we discussed a bit on Tuesday, when you write you do put a lot of yourself into the work. And a lot of people will decide from that work that they can judge or define you as a person; that they somehow know you because they’ve read your books. And as I said, maybe they do. I don’t know what people think of me after reading my books, or what sort of person they think I am, or what clues to that they’ve found in my work. And this sort of judgment has always taken place, and still takes place, everywhere from the largest newspaper in the country to the smallest review blog. People always want to analyze the writer through his or her work, and they always want to analyze the work by connecting it to what they know of the writer. That’s normal; it’s just the way it goes. But again, that seems to be the case for literary fiction and not genre fiction.

I don’t believe genre fiction is any less artistic than literary fiction. I don’t believe genre fiction writers put any less of themselves into their work or expose themselves any less, at least not good genre fiction writers. I’m tired of fantasy or science fiction or romance being treated like they’re not “real” books. But I also wonder, at what point does that become, not a self-fulfilling prophecy, but one which we ourselves contribute to?

See, every time we as genre fiction writers huff indignantly that our work isn’t that special to us, that it’s not our baby, that it’s not ourselves, maybe we contribute to the idea that genre fiction isn’t art and shouldn’t be treated/considered as such. Maybe we contribute to the idea that we haven’t put anything of ourselves into the work, that we haven’t actually written anything of depth or truth.

It comes into the “professionalism” argument as well. We’re all so worried about being professional, about being easy to work with and seeing our work as a commodity and ourselves as commodities and all of that…have we become so focused on publishing as a business that we’ve forgotten about the magic of it? About the art? Have we tried so hard to be seen as professionals, not as silly women writing silly things or whatever, that we’ve stripped away some of the joy, and turned art into drudgery? We don’t want to say our work matters to us because that’s not a professional attitude; but you tell me in what other profession people are expected not to care about their work? Why can’t we be professional and still deeply invested in what we do?

It seems sometimes as if that attitude, the “Oh, my work is just what I do for a living, it doesn’t really mean that much to me, I’m totally cool, yo,” attitude, is expected of us. And I’m not sure why. Is it because we do see the occasional stunning online meltdown, with ranting and name-calling and “Wicca curses” and the ever-popular “I’d like to see you write a book, mean girl!” and we all want to distance ourselves from that as much as possible? Maybe. Is it because in some ways genre fiction feels more like a popularity contest than literary fiction, by which I mean we’re expected to network with our readers and interact with them; we’re expected to be accessible and friendly and open, in a way I don’t think litfic writers are? (I could be totally wrong about that, it’s just the impression I get and something I’ve noticed). Litfic writers get on Oprah; genre fiction writers get on Twitter.

I love interacting with readers, I honestly do. I don’t mind the expectation that I promote and Tweet and blog and all of that other stuff, because I enjoy doing all of that. But again, I wonder if the desire to be liked by readers, the desire to be popular, to not offend them, to make them want to support us, has made us deny our art? Has made us put it down or act like it’s nothing special or important in order to seem like just one of the gals, as it were? If we say our work is important, or imply that we’ve done something special that only we can do (by which I mean expressing our own individual truth and telling our own individual story, not writing in general; certainly neither I nor any of my friends are the only people who can write) then we’re not implying to our readers that we think we’re better than them. We’re equalizing with them. We’re being careful not to let a hint of ego or arrogance leak into the air around us, because if they think we’re an asshole they might not buy our books. Hell, even just talking about what our goals were or what we hoped to accomplish with our books can be seen as pretentious or entitled or whatever else.

And I do think that’s part of it as well. Sometimes it feels as thought the denial of genre fiction as art is really writers being told to get the hell over themselves, they only wrote a fantasy novel, you know?

I admit part of that is true. As proud as I am of the Downside books and as much of myself as I put into them, I don’t think they’re WAR AND PEACE. I know they’re not.

But they are art. They are my art. They are an expression of something deep inside me and the way I see the world. That’s what art is; the expression of something to elicit an emotional reaction, remember?

I’m happy to distance myself from that art when necessary; I don’t show up screaming on review blogs if someone didn’t love my work. I don’t reply to Amazon reviews or whatever. That’s not my place. I will freely admit that my books are not my babies, and I will let them go, and let people interpret them as they may. All of that is fine, and expected, and right.

But what I will not do any longer is pretend that my books aren’t part of me, and that they don’t matter, and that they aren’t art. Because they are.

A few weeks ago over on the Romance Divas forum a discussion was started about honesty in your writing, and what that means. It moved on into discussions of art and connection to your work as art, which I’m also going to discuss. So basically we’re going to have a big mishmash of Stacia’s Deep Thoughts about writing, which will hopefully be fun for everyone, but of course we’ll see, won’t we?

Anyway. The initial question, posted by the lovely and talented Kate Pearce, was whether or not we, as writers, compromise ourselves–change what we want to write–in order to sell the work or make it “acceptable” to a particular audience; do we stop ourselves from writing things readers might react badly to. Keeping in mind we’re discussing genre fiction, and genre fiction has certain conventions and reader expectations. All of which are, of course, perfectly fine; readers are entitled to expect the book they pick up will be what the cover and bookstore shelving or whatever promises them it will be.

But at what point do we stop writing what we want to write in order to be successful? At what point do we suffer for refusing to do so?

The thing is, your writing should excite you. Not ‘excite” as discussed in the Strumpet series, lol (although sometimes it should, depending on what you’re writing), but excite as in fire you up intellectually and creatively. I firmly believe that if what you’re writing doesn’t do that, the reader will sense it. The writing will be flat. The story will seem cliche. And frankly, a flat, cliche story stands very little chance of selling (yes, there are exceptions, but in general, and especially when it comes to first-time authors or those just beginning careers). This post isn’t about writing techniques, though. It’s about the deeper aspects of writing, the emotional stuff, the stuff we couch in skill.

But how much is too much? What if the story that really excites you is one so out there that the odds of anyone wanting to buy or read it are infinitesimal? I believe fantasy, especially, is a genre with lots of room for growth and change. I believe readers on the whole are a lot smarter than some people give them credit for, and a lot more willing to and capable of stepping onto that ledge and seeing where the writer wants to take them. But if you’re writing a cannibal romance, you’re probably going to have a hard time, let’s face it.

We all know compromise is part of life, or rather, there is an element of compromise in life. We all know that we can stick to our guns, and write that romance where the hero and heroine sit down at the end to a nice big plate of baked human hearts with artichokes and mushrooms, with the freshly slaughtered carcasses stored in their deep freeze, but that may limit our publishing options. You might be able to sell that cannibal love story to a horror publisher or imprint, but it’s probably not going to fly with genre romance (hey, I could be wrong, this is just my personal feeling).

The problem–and the fundamental question here–is, at what point are you compromising too much? What is your work to you; is it stories you write for a laugh and to pay the bills, or is it an expression of yourself? (That’s not to say stories you write for a laugh and to pay the bills can’t be an expression of yourself. The difference is in how you view them, to some degree.) In other words, how much do you care about what you write, how much of yourself do you put into it? How deep do you go? How honest are you?

How deep should you go? How much do you need to expose yourself, if at all? How much should you expose yourself?

And how much of your decision is practicality, and how much is fear?

This touches on a larger, more fundamental question, which is whether or not fiction is art and whether or not writers are artists. And whether or not genre fiction is art. I think we’ll talk about that and the implications of it a bit more later, but we can’t really have this discussion without at least mentioning it first, so we have some kind of lens to view the discussion through.

My personal feeling is that every writer puts something of themselves into their work, whether they mean to or not.

Writing books is in some ways akin to exposing yourself. You write a book. You pour large parts of yourself into it. The characters may or may not be you–usually they aren’t–but if you’re really digging deep into the POV character, you are by necessity accessing parts of yourself and putting them on the page, no matter how ugly or embarrassing or painful they may be; no matter how joyous or fun or delightful they may be.

A book is the expression of truth as you see it and experience it. Every moment, every scene, every sentence is you expressing something important to you, no matter what it is. No matter what the plot is, no matter the setting or genre, you’re telling a story that came from you. You have to be in there; if you’re not, where and how is the book connected to you and to the rest of the world? If you’re not, what exactly are you writing, and is it what you really want to write or is it just something you’re writing to make money? How proud are you, or can you be, of the latter?

I think these are questions that can and do make a lot of people uncomfortable, and I have some thoughts on why, which we’ll discuss in the next post. But this is what I know. Writing something you really put yourself into is terrifying. Doing anything you really put yourself into is terrifying. And it is that way for a lot of reasons. Writing that way is akin to sharing your deepest secrets with a lot of strangers, and inviting them to poke and prod at your weakest points, your deepest insecurities. There are people out there who will look at your work and decide they know what kind of person you really are because of what you wrote. There are people who will decide that by exposing yourself in your work you have invited them into every other part of your life; look at the types of questions some erotic romance writers are regularly asked about their sex lives. There are people who will hate your book and be unable to separate that from you as a person. There are people who will decide that because you’ve written a certain type of character or story you deserve to be shamed or shunned; they will confuse you with the work to the extent that not just the work but you yourself become an object of derision, as if you are a book yourself with no feelings. And maybe they shouldn’t be able to completely separate you; who can really say? If you’re putting yourself that deeply into your work, are you actually stripping yourself, baring yourself? If they disagree with your truth, don’t they have a right to say that, and to say it about you and not just your work?

Perhaps eliciting that kind of reaction is a good thing. People may dislike the timid, but they don’t tend to hate them with such a passion. Maybe if you’ve done something that makes people that angry, it’s a good thing. I’ve never been someone who believes that the purpose of art is to shock or anger. But can we say that if you do shock and anger people, you’ve obviously touched them on some kind of deep level? And that perhaps an emotional reaction of that depth is the purpose of writing, and thus the purpose of art?

Perhaps if people hate you because of something you’ve written it’s because you refused to stay in the box they wanted to put you in. People don’t like it when you’re not easy to classify; they don’t like it when you try to challenge what they expect you to be. There are people in this world who dislike it when others show depth or intellect; there are people who simply cannot handle disagreement with them or the idea that others see things differently, people who are incapable of stepping outside of their own worldviews for a moment. Those people exist in every field, in every country, in every place, all over the world (look at some of the arguments people have over science questions, or politics, or about whether or not Spiderman could beat Iron Man in a fight. I’m not saying everyone who dislikes or diagrees with something or someone is being small-minded, that’s not remotely what I mean. I’m just saying that when you expose yourself and your work, or your theories or opinions, to the wider world, you have to be prepared for all kinds of reactions).

But eliciting that kind of reaction can be terrifying, too. Unnerving. And it’s something we don’t always prepare ourselves for. Something I’m not sure we can prepare ourselves for. No one can predict what kind of reaction a piece of writing or a piece of art–whether they’re different things or the same thing–will get.

The thing is, I don’t know a single writer who doesn’t feel emotionally vulnerable about their work, no matter how light-hearted the work is. I don’t know a single writer who doesn’t feel, after writing an intense scene or finishing a novel, as if they’ve just spent several hours being psychoanalyzed and poked with sticks. No, our characters are not us. But if our books are the expression of truth as we see them, if our books are expressions of ourselves, then we have exposed ourselves. If we’ve been honest in our work then we have essentially invited strangers into our minds and hearts, into our psyches, and invited them to rummage around a bit.

We’re trying to connect with people. We’re trying to connect with readers. We’re trying to share an experience with them, make them think and feel, and do it in the most honest way we can. (We’re trying to entertain them first and foremost, of course, but this is about the deeper aspects of our work.) We want them to connect emotionally with what we’ve written; there is no greater compliment than to be told by a reader that your work made them cry (um, assuming it was a sad or emotional scene, of course. It’s not a compliment if your light comedy made a reader cry through its sheer awfulness. Nobody wants a reader to put down their book, drop to their knees, and scream, “Why is life so terrible?!”)

Isn’t creating something with the intent to elicit an emotional response in someone else, art? Isn’t that the purpose of art?

And if it is, why do we so often shy away from calling it that?

We’re going to talk about that on Thursday.

Today is the official release day for UNHOLY GHOSTS in the US, and I guess it’s being released in the UK/Ireland/Australia/New Zealand as well? Yes, it seems that way. And I’m frankly terrified. Excited and elated and terrified.

We had a couple of new reviews come in, and they’re good ones. Not just, or not necessarily, because they’re positive, although they largely are, but because they’re thoughtful. Because they read the book and really considered it, and really put that consideration into the reviews, and really?

It’s not my place as an author to ask reviewers or readers for shit. It’s not my place to tell them how they should think or feel about my work, or how they should express those feelings. But I won’t deny that it pleases me immensely and makes me feel good when they do put that consideration and thought into their reviews. It’s gratifying, and I appreciate it, and if I could ask for something, that would be what I would ask for.

So first we have Michele Lee’s Book Love:

Unholy Ghosts is a thrilling ride, textured and vivid, a powerhouse of fantasy. Brimming with characters that aren’t quite heroes but aren’t quite bad guys either, it shows the hard core, broke down parts of the world other stories skip over, the dark side of reality that comes not from magic, but from the poor, desperate and disillusioned trying to make it through a hard life.

Seriously? I got a little teary when I saw this one. It was so close to how I think of the books; Michele understood so clearly what I was trying to do and express. It’s absolutely amazing to feel understood like that, and like you’ve truly connected with someone through your work.

Another reviewer who I think truly understood what I was trying to do, even if her understanding came more about the larger concept than the characters themselves, is KMont at Lurve ala Mode. She featured the book in her “Books With Balls” segment (which, how fucking cool is that?!) and rated it 5 balls, out of a possible 5. That’s ballsy, y’all, which is (to me at least) a huge compliment:

Why is this book ballsy?

1. Quite frankly, its because the heroine is a unrepentant drug addict. Because of this aspect, and how it’s portrayed, the author takes a big risk and really puts herself out there. I think this alone, whether or not one likes how it all plays out, is pretty darn cool.

and

Unholy Ghosts is to be commended for the risks it takes, while at the same time deserving of being held in check for them. I honestly think some will be turned off while others will eagerly embrace a book that does take risks like this. As for me, I honestly struggled with how to rate it. On one hand, I’m glad to have read it and experienced a truly unique urban fantasy.

I strongly recommend you read the entire review. While I don’t necessarily agree with some of KMont’s opinions/conclusions (like that Chess’s only motivation for defeating the bad guy was her own self-interest, and not to protect the rest of humanity and the Church) and while there is one small factual error (Chess’s pills–Cepts–are opiates, not speed) that’s nitpicking on my part, frankly. What matters to me is that KMont understood what I was trying to do–create something unique, create a world of moral ambiguity and in doing so explore just where our boundaries are and whether our concepts of good and bad are fluid, and explore just what the limits of the genre truly are–and seemed to really connect with that attempt, although there were things about the book that didn’t thrill her and she does make an excellent point about the climax of the novel.

Last is Shuzluva’s review at Dear Author. Shuzluva is not a fan of horror or horrific elements and felt much more strongly about Chess’s addiction; it was a major problem for her before picking up the book, and she was unable to really get past that in the reading. However, she did say this:

The pacing of the book is excellent, and definitely gave me some of those “put-the-book-down-before-my-heart-explodes” moments. The characters are vivid and even the secondary characters get fabulous treatment. I can’t say enough about the wonderful worldbuilding. Triumph City and The Church of the Real Truth are tangible and downright scary, gritty and dark.

(The discussion in comments is quite interesting, as well.)

So what is my point, and what am I thinking of today?

I’m thinking of how, as every reviewer above touched upon whether they elaborated on it or not, it is apparently pretty obvious to readers with intelligence that this is a deeply personal book, and that it is a challenging one, and that is amazing to me. Would I rather they’d all said, as others have, “This is challenging in some ways and also fucking kicks ass” instead of just two of them? Of course. Am I nervous as hell that people will see all of this and think the book is too deep or something and skip it in favor of something they think will be more fun? Of course.

Because it is a fun book, guys, at least I think so, and a lot of reviewers have thought so. Yes, I wanted to play with the boundaries of the genre. Yes I wanted to challenge myself and the reader. Yes I wanted to ask some questions and make people think.

But what I mostly wanted to do is what I always want to do, which is entertain the hell out of you people. I wanted to show you a good time. It’s what I always want to do.

I also didn’t want to preach to you. I’m frankly surprised at how many people either would expect the first book in a series to have a full and complete character arc away from addiction; what the hell is fun about that story, again? Does that seem like an exciting urban fantasy plot to you, especially for a first book?

And while I expected some people to be turned off, I didn’t expect the Puritanical vitriol* I’ve gotten from a small minority who seem to think addiction, or writing about addiction, is a moral crime on a par with baby murdering, and that to even buy a book with an addict character is akin to standing in the corner and cheering while that baby is murdered. I guess fiction is not after all a place to explore different lives and situations; buying a novel is a political and moral act, and buying a book about an addict is a moral wrong. Ohh-kay. Perhaps it would be better if we just shot our addicts? Especially the functional ones? Maybe from there we’ll move to people who take antidepressants; after all, that’s a daily pill to make you feel better, and if you stop taking it you’ll go through very uncomfortable withdrawals, and it does have (IMO) more dangerous side affects than most opiates…

I guess also that addicts are not people like you and me who got caught up in something too big for them, but are in fact the human equivalent of slime found at the bottom of a pond. Apparently it’s okay for a heroine in an urban fantasy to kill people, to beat them, to make stupid decisions that lead to the deaths of others–sometimes even her own children–but for her to pop a few pills every day…now THAT is wrong and evil.

Anyway, while those who are obviously our superiors in every way and have never made a mistake sniffle and judge, let’s you and me keep talking.

Fiction isn’t about being safe, at least good fiction isn’t. Not as far as I’m concerned. It’s about telling the truth. It’s about showing other people the world as you see it. It’s about exposing yourself.

You know the saying “Writing is easy. You just sit down at the typewriter and open a vein?”

I always thought that was about how hard it can be to get the words to come, and how long it can take.

I was wrong. It’s about how much we expose of ourselves when we write. It’s about how fiction–truly good fiction that touches people, not that I’m claiming to be Little Miss Excellent or anything like that, I just know how proud I am of these books and the response they’re getting–can’t be accomplished if you’re afraid, if you’re hiding yourself or aspects of yourself or especially your characters from your readers. You cannot lie to them and still have a truly worthwhile book. You just can’t. It simply isn’t possible. You can’t be afraid. You can’t refuse to share things with them. You can’t hold back.

Sure, people may not like it, and they may not like you. You may put your heart on a plate and hand it to a reader and have them turn up their nose and walk away, or spit at it. It happens. That’s life, and that’s writing, and that’s the way it goes.

Remember last month, when I went to Eight of Swords tattoos to get a new tattoo? Here it is:

(I took the picture myself, and it’s on my right bicep running upward, so it’s a little crooked in the photo, sorry.)

And that’s my vow to myself, and my promise to myself, and the words I try to live by.

So what am I feeling today, when my book is released? I’m nervous, and excited, and proud. And I want you to buy it, and love it, and be entertained by it. And I want you to close it feeling like you’ve experienced something unique and you haven’t wasted your money and you’ve just read an awesome story. I don’t need you to analyze it or be all intellectual about it, I just want you to enjoy it. I want you to be excited for the next book on July 6th. And I really, really hope you are.

And that’s it, really. But I also want you to know how very much I appreciate every one of you, those who comment and those who don’t. I hope I don’t let you down.

Tomorrow we’ll be back to having fun, okay?

* It has come to my attention that the comments in this paragraph have been misconstrued to mean that I believe anyone who has a problem with a drug addict heroine, or who expresses discomfort in the idea, or doesn’t like it, is being evil and Puritanical and whatever. I sincerely apologize to anyone who might have thought this was the case. I thought my comments in the past, and my other comments in this post, would make it clear that I do not think or feel that way at all. In fact, because of my comments in the past it honestly never even occurred to me that anyone would take my post that way.

I certainly do not see a negative review as “vitriol.” I guess I can see how some people–who are accustomed to authors freaking out and attacking over a less-than-glowing review–would feel that I might, and therefore would classify my comments that way. I wasn’t thinking of that when I wrote this post and I absolutely should have been, so I apologize genuinely to anyone who might have felt I was referring to them or their feelings. Quite frankly, in all of the stress and anxiety of a release day I simply wasn’t thinking the way I normally would.

You are entitled–as I have said before here and elsewhere numerous times–to dislike my characters or my books. You are entitled to be uncomfortable with the very idea. You’re entitled to express that feeling (although I would prefer that you not aim that expression at readers who want to read a book, and tell them they’re supporting drug abuse by purchasing a book. They don’t deserve that). As I said in my response to Shuzluva’s review yesterday, I’d be a moron if I didn’t expect that some people would have an issue with that.

None of those feelings are vitriolic. Nor is expressing them tantamount to vitriol.

What I mean when I say “vitriol” are the comments I’ve seen aimed at reader, implying they are morally bankrupt for wanting to read, for reading, or enjoying a certain book. What I mean when I say “vitriol” are the three emails I have received in the last week calling me names and telling me I am evil for encouraging drug use. These did not come from one person alone, although it is possible it was one person with more than one email address and IP.

Yes, I have reported them to their email service, and no, I don’t want to discuss it further, and no, I am not particularly frightened or freaked out (they weren’t threatening, just, well, vitriolic) so if you are someone who would normally be inclined to worry please don’t. I had this happen to me once before–long-time readers may remember the short period of time where comments on my old blog went screened–and this is simply something that happens to people online.

But I did get one this morning, and it made me angry, and that small section of my post was in response to that.

Obviously, I need to get used to, or realize, that I may start getting new visitors here who aren’t familiar with my previous comments on issues like these and the very strong stance I have always taken in support of readers and their right to their opinions about books and the expression of those opinions (and yes, I suppose decrying the “You’re evil” comments may be seen as telling them they can’t share an opinion, but there’s a difference between “this book sucks” and “hey, you, reader, you personally suck, so burn in hell.” Attack the books if you want. Please don’t attack the readers; they are people with feelings, and have just as much right to choose books they enjoy as you do).

That I did not think of that is wrong. That I may have unwittingly or inadvertently hurt someone who took the time to read and review my book is unforgivable, and believe me when I say I feel absolutely sick about it. I am so, so sorry.

Which is another point, too: my warning about the content of the Downside books re drug use. My warning was largely intended for readers of the Demons books, who may have been expecting the new series to be more of the same. The Demons books have sold very well, and I get in general a few emails about them each month.

My desire to make sure fans of that series knew the differences between the two series, and did not buy something they wouldn’t be happy or comfortable with simply because it had my name on it was just that. I was attempting to not violate the trust my current readers, who often visit here and mention the blog in their emails, have or had in me.

The two series are very different, that’s all. I wasn’t attempting to control anyone or tell readers what to do or think. I simply didn’t want them to pick up a book by an author whose work has to that point been light-hearted and amusing and discover that it was something else entirely, something which might upset them. I wanted them to know that in this instance my name may not mean what they think it means. That’s all. Again, I apologize if that was the wrong thing to do, but it felt like the right thing; it felt like taking care of my readers and making them aware of something they might not have realized. It felt like not misleading them by claiming the books are something they aren’t.

That was the spirit in which it was meant, anyway.

I guess I’ve just fucked up all around, and I don’t really know what I can say or do about that.

Here’s the thing. Writing involves making up stories. Perhaps you’re a plotter, one of those bizarre creatures who knows exactly what’s going to happen in the story before you open a shiny new Document and follows your path as tidily as a ballerina with months of rehearsal. (In which case I seriously envy you, despite my snottiness. It’s fond, admiring snottiness, I promise.)

Or maybe you’re a pantser like me, and start with a character or two and a premise, and toss them into the document and see what happens. Maybe like me you have a few vague ideas of where the story will go; I tend to have some sort of idea of what the climactic battle will be like, and maybe a scene or two sort of lurking in the back of my mind waiting to be used.

But either way, you need to make up the story. It’s down to YOU; it’s your responsibility. Quite frankly, a fiction writer who cannot make up a story is not a fiction writer. If writing fiction is what you want to do, you need to learn and absorb the skill of Making Shit Up. Period.

Which is why it drives me insane when I see writers–or those who want to be or claim to be writers–asking people what they should do with their story. Should the hero and heroine get together now? Should the villain do this or that? How old should the characters be? Should the villain die at the end? Should the father be the bad guy?

Then there are the secondary questions, what I refer to as the “unfamiliar” questions. I call them that because the questioner is seemingly unfamiliar with either the genre in which they are writing, or with books in general. (They could also be called the “Is it okay” questions, since they tend to start that way. These are questions like, “Is it okay if the hero cusses? Is it okay if the heroine isn’t a virgin? Is it okay if the heroine kills the bad guy? Is it okay if the hero gets drunk? Is it okay if the hero has a kid?” etc. etc.

I’d say the latter annoy me more, but honestly, they both annoy me equally.