I have been a passionate writer for years now; it’s only recently that I’ve begun to delve into the world of getting my works published. I know it’s easy for people to point out trends and show what’s forecasting to be popular in 2022. I know it’s easy for people to point to statistics and say, “This is what everyoneis reading these days.”
But I don’t want my books to be for mass consumption. I don’t want my books to be plastered with stickers like an “As seen on TV” toaster. I’m not saying I want my writing to be obscure or unknown, but I am not writing for a mass market. I want people to read my writing because it resonates with some deep part of their soul.
Today, I received a series of messages from a fellow poet. She lives in South Africa, but she admitted to me she saw parts of herself in my poetry. Another author from Chile told me that parts of her were reflected in a poem I just finished. That’s what is important to me. I don’t care if I’m on a best seller list or if no one buys my books – I want my words to reverberate truth to those who read them. I want my writing to be something that stirs in the hearts and souls of those who read it.
Last night, I received a letter from my son, telling me that I’m a good artist, and to be honest, after growing frustrated with the numbers and the followers and the algorithms, it was nice to be reminded why I do this.
I write so that others may find their voice among the fray. I write so others don’t feel lost or lonely. I write to be someone’s candle when all their lives they thought themselves blind.
In 2022, I hope to write more, publish more of my writing, and continue to spark awareness in others. I pierce my own veins so that poetry uncoils from the skin, and the reader sees me as a mirror. So that the reader knows they are not alone.
Ps: Don’t forget to check my blog over the next couple of days for the three installments of “The Great Novelist”.
As I mentioned previously in my post, “Untitled”, I did a poll in my Facebook group and one thing readers seemed to be interested in was a moment of inspiration in my life. It was one of those prompts that I mulled over in the back of my head, but I didn’t think of very much. Honestly, my fear of this becoming a diary has stopped me from sharing more personal entries, but after opening up about my friend’s father’s death (and how it impacted me), describing my story with adoption – by the way, November is National Adoption Month and if you feel like refreshing yourself on my personal experience with adoption, click here, my experiences with domestic violence, and more, I feel like I can talk about something as simple as writing influences.
I have always been a reader. I’ve been reading since I was three, and even before that, my mom was reading stories to me. When I was six, I was writing stories, which in the 90s made me a prodigy of sorts. These stories were nonsense, but I always had an overactive imagination. When I was baby-sitting in middle school, I’d make up stories for the kids I babysat for, and when I went to sleep-away camp, the girls in my cabin begged for my ghost stories.
As I grew older, I had teachers who encouraged my writing abilities – the mentor I had in tenth and eleventh grade who bought me books on the craft and spent hours with me people-watching and giving me advice on scenes I wrote. I even wrote a misguided attempt at a novel with a scene where a bunch of hipsters go to an art gallery where a bird is ripping up a van Gogh. Yeah, I shudder to think that notebook still exists somewhere – 53 pages of absolute drivel.
It was around this time that I started to develop my voice and discovered authors who influenced me: Jack Kerouac, J.D. Salinger, Diane diPrima, Jeanette Winterson, Sandra Cisneros, Chuck Palahniuk, a giant menagerie of influences. Later, I read works by Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, and I learned, despite my mother’s liking, not all poetry was sunshine and daydreams.
Around seventeen, I became friends with a poet/author who called herself “Aya”. She challenged me to be a better author and poet. She helped me to truly discover my voice as she helped me whittle my metaphors sharp and introduced me to bands like Meg & Dia, Paramore, and I began listening to music for the lyrics. I had a British boyfriend who introduced me to Travis, Oasis’ little-known gems, Snow Patrol. My English teacher gave me a mixed CD with Pearl Jam on it, and all of a sudden, through all the music I was listening to and books I was reading, I began to grow. I began to challenge myself to be a better writer and poet. I scribbled song lyrics on my faded jeans and lines from poems on my sneakers.
By the time twelfth grade rolled around, my poetic voice was nailed. I knew who I sounded like and I liked it. Sure, I was still growing and experimenting (as we must always do as authors), but I took a Creative Writing class and didn’t absolutely cringe at my works. I wonder why everything had to be a tragic love song (because it did — so many heartbreaking stories), but I was beginning to develop into an author and poet with a style.
I went through a variety of pseudonyms and dark spots, but I ended up here, working on a ghost-writing project, revising my first novel, and crating my second.
And maybe years from now, I will look back on this post and laugh at how immature or naive I was, but right now, this is the story of my influences and where I came from as an author.
Most likely, my tastes and influences will change as I age and grow; because even now, I think of Neil Gaiman, Simon van Booy, Janet Fitch, and Erin Morgenstern, and I know there are more authors than I can possibly name who have influenced my writing voice, but these are just a few.
I have been struggling with coming up with an apt genre for my novel for a long time now. This has been a novel that has been on my brain for seventeen years now, and I’m finally seeing progress on. I am in the last stage of revisions before sending it off to agents, but for so long, I have debated what the genre was: slipstream, urban fantasy, magical realism, contemporary fantasy, speculative fiction. Eventually, I just gave up and decided it was its own genre: dream fiction. Imagine my delight when tonight, unexpectedly, I discovered a pair of new genres that I had not heard of that seem to fit the tone and themes of my book: dreampunk and transrealism.
According to the website “What is Dreampunk“, “dreampunk fiction often makes use of surreal imagery, esoteric symbolism, dream logic (which may not be entirely logical), dream-related technology, false/subjective realities, shamanism, and Jungian psychology.” While my debut novel doesn’t feature all of these characteristics, it displays some of them, enough so, that I feel confident enough to call it a dreampunk novel.
Transrealism, as described by this article by The Guardian, “creates a detailed and realistic depiction of life and will then shatter it open..” The article further posits “through this realist tapestry, the author threads a singular, impossibly fantastic idea, often one drawn from the playbook of science fiction, fantasy, and horror.”
So, I would say, based on those definitions, my debut novel (and perhaps other works-in-progress) could be described as either dreampunk or transrealism.
This is an exciting moment for me as an author to finally have narrowed down the genre of my works so that when I pitch it to agents and publishers, I can finally explain where my books will fit in on shelves at my favorite bookstores!
What is my debut novel about?
Glad you asked.
One September morning in the city of New Amhurst, Aisling McHale wakes up and discovers something strange. A necklace her dead mother had given in a nightmare has shattered through the barrier of her dreams and into the waking world. The curtain between the two realms is lifted, dragging them into war and threatening to destroy everything she knows.
Choices that will forever change her destiny confront her. Demands are made. She must salvage the last few meaningful relationships she has left or surrender to this new world of strange dreams and grotesque nightmares.
As Aisling continues to disconnect from reality and succumbs to the lure of this alternate universe, will she prevail? Will she be able to save everything she cares for or will it all perish in the hellish apocalypse her nightmares leave behind?*
*This is a working blurb, and it may be changed or revised at any time.
Isabelle Palerma 