So I realized, the other day, I don’t write what I love.

Let me explain.

I adore big long sweeping novels. I love late SF from the 60s and 70s: Dhalgren, Illuminatus! and the like. Huge sprawling experimental novels that just take up as much space as they need to get the job done.

I love SF all across the board. I grew up with it and it has a homey feel that appeals to me and makes me smile most days.

I swoon over good old fashioned American noir: Spillane, Chandler, Jim Thompson, Hammet. It is so incredibly clean and precise. It’s full of dark harsh lives that flash brightly but briefly.

I love this shit, man. I tell you, I dig on it like you wouldn’t believe.

So, when I write fiction, I don’t write it. I don’t write the novels I would love to read, really. I write stories I want to tell and I work in genres I don’t spend too much time in. I like it that way.

See, when I work in the box of toys I love the most I get too careful. I over think and I worry and I try to make it different because I can quote, chapter and verse, everyone who has done something close before. And that kills off a story. It kills it good.

So instead I stay clear of my loves and write in the margins of spaces that I don’t read often. I’m free to play, there. I’m free to make my own rules and put my own spin on things and roam a little, inventing my own spaces.

Which is, for me, part of the point. It’s just interesting to realize, or it was for me, that while I will always write stories I care about, I will never write a book that would rank up in my own personal top ten.