I am writing this from Lancashire awkwardly drinking Yorkshire Tea; the War of the Roses may have ended centuries ago but there are still subtle undercurrents of rivalry between the two counties. I have found some Lancashire Tea in the small shop so I will have a guilt free cuppa later.
I made it to the RNA conference and it is the last day. What an experience! In the talks I have listened to, people I have met and writing journeys I have heard, I feel invigorated in my creativity and determination to take the leap from writer to author. I did have a wobble of confidence yesterday because there are amazing writers in the group. The stories come alive with emotions and my scribblings about the comings and goings of The Enchanted Emporium appeared childish in comparison. This was impacted by my insecurity of the genre Willow’s and even Amber’s story fit. Too magical for women’s literature, not spooky enough for paranormal and with Amber’s tale it doesn’t sit firmly in the YA fantasy label. My explanations of the genre when asked were long winded “romantic contemporary women’s fiction with a hint of supernatural” felt like a mouthful especially when I struggle to say contemporary. Without a fit I felt no agent, editor would touch it so my mind latched on to the idea of self publishing; whatever A Blend of Magic is determined to be out in the world. Until yesterday. I made the snap decision to attend a lecture The Worried Writer by the delightful Sarah Painter instead of the scheduled one. It was a revelation.
Not only was the talk relevant to my worried mind and procrastinating ways in minutes she introduced her work as magical realism. It was a light bulb moment; that is my genre for both manuscripts. They have important themes, which I hope I can do them portray well, with emotion and depth but there is magic threaded through. It may sound stupid to some but having a name has given my work some value in my head and confidence to admit what I am writing rather than hiding it under a mumble.
I am a magical realism writer.
My tea has long gone and it time to mingle with writers who maybe worse for wear after the Gala dinner last night.