I’ve never been ashamed of being a sci-fi writer or a fantasy writer. This doesn’t mean that people haven’t tried to make me feel that way. The majority of writers I am or have been face to face with over the years are literary fiction authors (with a gentle dusting of YA and urban poetry. Many subscribe to the real in a way that is dismissive of the unreal. I’ve written in the past about how science fiction and even fantasy are still talking about the core ideas of what it means to be a human being and deal with difficult yet everyday situations. The fact that a guy like me likes to slather assault rifles and fire-breathing dragons on top of that should only add to the complexity of the prose. Rare is the sci-fi author who slips past the gauntlet of derision and self-doubt to become accepted on both sides of the writing spectrum—both as a commercial artist who ‘writes the sci fi’ and literary juggernaut whose work is to be considered canon for all of those who want to learn about what it means to write.
As the gulf between NY publishing and smaller MFA print runs grows, I find myself less interested in debating the legitimacy of my work and more concerned with producing writing I can be proud of. Recently I produced work I was not proud of. I allowed the pallor of distraction to overcome me and take from me the joy of what I love to do most. It was a dark stain on the project and a lesson to be remembered. Writing is a joy, but dealing with the life around writing is a chore. Writing is a joy, but the politics of writing suck. Writing is a joy yet putting your butt in that chair is the hardest thing you’ll do everyday.