Had an epiphany this weekend...

This is going to be another one of those long, ponderous, navel-gazey posts, so if you're not in the mood, move along. I won't be offended. :)



I started a workshop this weekend with an amazing writing coach who's already given my flagging motivation a good kick in the ass. She's shaken loose a few other things, too - namely, the way I've been forcing myself to write stuff that no longer makes me happy.

Bottom line: I'm not a romance writer, and I haven't been for a long time.

I don't believe in happily-ever-after endings. I never have, but for the last few years I'd convinced myself that I was pretty good at faking it - and, well... no, I wasn't. Happy for now is the best I can muster these days, and most readers aren't satisfied with that.

But I can't go on faking it anymore. HEAs are a fantasy - an impossible fantasy, in my experience.

I'd probably be better at it if I had any clue what a happy relationship was like. My parents had a horrible marriage, mostly because my mother was batshit crazy. She hated her life, and she took out her depression and frustration on everyone around her. I spent most of my childhood praying they'd get a divorce. Mom actually filed papers once, but my dad, a staunch Catholic, talked her out of it. Because God looks down on divorce, but two people making each other (and their kids) miserable for year after motherfucking year? Hey, no problem!

Sadly, Mom's anger and depression got worse as she got older, so I spent most of my adult life staying as far away from her as I could. When she passed in 2006, all I felt was relief.

My own marriage didn't fare much better. I was horribly depressed too, but things started to turn around once I entered therapy - for a little while, at least. What I didn't count on was my husband's savior complex kicking into high gear. Everything was fine between us as long as I stayed the poor, fragile little waif he'd rescued. But when I started to stand on my own two feet, things fell apart. The last two or three years of our marriage were incredibly rocky...

Then he dropped dead of a heart attack on January 19, 2009.

So, that's my relationship experience, and there's nothing particularly happy or ever-after about any of it.

Write what you know? What I know are dysfunctional families. Horrible, acrimonious arguments. Marriages where the love died a long time ago. Pretty fucking bleak, huh?

Which isn't to say I don't believe in hope. I just don't believe that everybody's problems disappear the moment they say, "I love you." And my books reflect that, which is no doubt why many readers (at least, the ones here on GR) are dissatisfied with them.

So it's time for a re-branding. Time to get rid of the "romance writer" label and steer myself toward "m/m and menage fiction writer"-land, where I won't be constrained by the demand to write hearts-and-flowers endings all the time.

Don't get me wrong - sometimes a happy ending is what the story calls for. Sometimes it needs something... not downbeat, per se, but maybe a bit more muted and low-key. I've had a heavy-duty case of writer's block the past few months, no doubt because my muse has parked herself in a very dark, inaccessible corner of my writing brain, going, "Nope, unh-uh. Not doing this anymore, and you can't make me."

Here's hoping my muse and I will both be a lot happier once I stop trying to squeeze myself into a strait-jacket.