It doesn’t really matter what genre you write in, it’s all a crime. Delusional titles, subtitles, and the constant splash of words to attract potential readers to our book, are nothing more than carrots on a string to lure the fly (the reader) into a stew of the author’s creation.
Like Hansel and Gretel, the reader discovers a candy house (the book) and devours every word only to want more. At least, that is what we authors would like to think. We create our works in hopes of giving a reader an experience like they’ve never felt before. We expect to take them on a journey where they live for a moment in our world and linger long enough to become immersed in our stories. They swim in pages of love, mayhem, chaos, conflict, and whatever our minds can devise.
We spend our waking moments thinking, plotting, planning.
We write with pleasure and edit in torment.
We research to make stories more believable.
When that story is finished, edited, and publish we do it all again, because in our heads and hearts lay many stories that can’t wait to escape us and dwell in the minds and hearts of others.
You can write like Hemingway or King and still not make a dime if no one reads your works or shares their experience. Without fans, a writer is doomed to a life of writing words that seldom find an eye
Some find a following and live a modest life enjoying the monetary fruits of their stories. Others write, and write, and write without the bankroll but appear as happy as anyone. It is the story that matters. Write and get it out of your head so the next story can get out and so on. A well of worlds bubble up from these authors with no end in sight. If they stop, their head will explode or their chest will rip open and creatures, like the world has never known, will crawl out of them.
When the writings done, and the sweat of editing complete, we wrap them in a cover and hold the book out for the world to read.
It’s a shame really. A crime of passion.