I love to write and I believe I'm good at it. I've been told, since a young age, that I'm good at it, even when I know that I really wasn't. (I couldn't tell then that I wasn't good, but I can see it now. No one must ever see those old stories!) I've always liked books about vampires and werewolves, what we now usually call Urban Fantasy. I like the excitement of something happening because of magic powers and supernatural creatures when it's easy to understand because it's set in our world.
Someone can say their main character gets in a car and drives to the corner store and I can exactly picture that. You throw your main character into some epic fantasy realm and now you have to tell me that she's getting on a bright pink pony that has some name with lots of apostrophes and I get bored because I have no attention span. I don't want to read pages of description of a world or its strange creatures. This makes me zone out and start drooling and then my iPad gets gross.
I write UF because, since I don't like reading tons of description, I certainly don't want to make others read it, either. I'll stick to our world and just toss in a few interesting creatures that don't require too much exposition and we'll all be happier for it. I also write UF because I am lazy! I want to tell a story, but I don't enjoy research. Like with reading about the pink apostrophe ponies, I will zone out and start drooling. My solution? Don't research guns; have your characters shoot FIRE! Don't research actual talents and skills; have your character be an empath or a secret, fairy assassin.
Aww, yeah. Laziness.
Don't get me wrong; I don't just slap something on the paper (er, computer screen) and expect it to be interesting. I do some research for certain things; I plan out what the plot of a book is going to be. I rewrite and flog myself for typos. I get input on whether ideas make sense. I make outlines and character description lists. I spent hours and hours doing the actual writing itself. I force myself to overcome my lazy tendencies for most of my writing.
But where I can be lazy, I will be, dammit.
I've finished my first manuscript that I want to actually try to get published. I've gone over it several times on my own and given it to friends to read. I've gotten feedback, edited it more times than I can count. Now, I'm making a list of agents to submit to and hoping that one of them finds my query interesting enough to ask for more.
I don't know why, but it makes me want to hide under my desk. I expect to be rejected before I get accepted; I've been rejected before, both for my writing and in many other aspects of my life. Logically I know that nothing negative will happen when I get a response that says an agent is not interested (or when I get no response and figure out on my own that they are just not that into me). But somehow submitting my work to someone who can eventually decide to sell my manuscript to a publisher is paralyzing. Just writing up the email draft may require copious amounts of alcohol. (And then a proofread after the hangover has passed because no one writes coherently when they're hammered, am I right?)
So, here I go. Wish me luck, or at least send me kitten pictures to distract me from all this distress.