Fiction, Or Non-Fiction? Whom Do I Love More?

I once read that a mark of an immature writer pursuing publication was experimenting in multiple genres.  The blogger maintained that a writer who hadn't yet found his or her niche was probably not ready or mature enough to be published until (s)he found what (s)he was really good at.

I disagree.

Of course, I get it from a marketing and business perspective.  You spend all this time trying to build a name for yourself, to gain a following.  You give the people what they want, and you can't just go changing it up on them.

But I actually think a willingness to experiment shows a writer's creativity and flexibility.  Maybe that's just my personal opinion, as I'm a writer who dabbles in both fiction and non-fiction.

I've recently been querying my non-fiction project, but I have two completed fiction novels that I've currently shelved, since the literary agents aren't exactly banging down my door.

In the face of rejection on my latest project, I've been thinking a lot as to what kind of writer I'd really prefer to be known as, assuming I eventually "make it" in the traditional publishing industry.

Fiction was my first love.  I've always been imagining characters and situations, way back in elementary school, when I used to stare out the window dreaming instead of listening to lessons on long division (sorry, math teachers).  I still remember writing a notebook length first novel (complete with illustrations) about a teenage protagonist named Anna who happened to meet an alien when his spaceship landed in her backyard.  I was in the fifth-grade at the time, and my best friend Kristin and I had spent hours of our lives designing and drawing characters and composing stories about them, a whole high school soap opera world of them.

I was also "published" for the very first time way back in fourth grade, when I penned "The Christmas Tree Mystery," a rhyming narrative holiday poem that our local paper, The Delaware Wave, was kind enough to print after my teacher submitted it to them.  

When I started writing "seriously" in late high school and early college, fiction felt more natural.  Though often inspired by real life events, I liked the control I had over creating my own endings, doing as I saw fit with the characters I had so easily dreamt up.

My foray into non-fiction was not nearly as organic.  Aside from an occasional memoir assignment, I never really wrote about my life (unless you count lousy teenage poetry and rambling rants in long lost diaries and journals).  And then I took Dr. Vince Puma's non-fiction course as a junior at Flagler College.  And it forever changed the way I thought of myself as a writer.  At the time, I was still writing far more fiction, but it was under his instruction that I discovered the sheer joy of capturing a real memory, coloring it with my emotions and reflections, and sharing it with both those who had been there to experience that memory with me and those who were hearing it for the very first time.  Dr. Puma, more than any other professor, encouraged me and inspired me.  "I expect to see your name in print some day," he'd scrawled in his barely legible handwriting.  I read it over and over again, this near-sacred compliment penciled messily onto the bottom of his comments on my final assignment for his course.

I am still trying to make him proud, to live up to that expectation.

But more than that, I write to please myself.  And I love both, fiction and non-fiction.  I am unable to choose between the two.  Perhaps if I ever get published in one genre, I'll decide to focus more on that one.  Maybe I'll continue to write both, one as a hobby, one as a career.  Or maybe that blogger was right.  Maybe I should focus on honing one, rather than dreamily drifting from genre to genre.

Or, maybe not.  Maybe I'll write under a pseudonym for the second genre.

Or maybe not worry about it.  After all, you can't lose sleep over an imaginary problem.  I'd have to be published in one genre before I could worry about marketing or reinventing myself in the second genre.

All that to say, I'd love to hear your opinion.

I titled this blog honestly, wanting to feel free to share my love of writing events both real and imagined.  But as I was glancing back over it, I realized I've been focused on my non-fiction, probably because that's what my latest efforts to acquire an agent have revolved around.

So because this blog has been inadvertently almost entirely composed of non-fiction, my second love to which I've been far more attentive to lately, here's a snippet from one of my book-length fiction works.  It's been shared on facebook before--I posted it to celebrate reaching the 300 page mark, the longest work I've ever stuck with--so if you've read it already, you are dismissed from my musings for the day!  But first:  What do you think?  Is it possible to publish in both genres?  Which do you enjoy reading more?  Am I stronger in one than the other?  Those of you who've not yet seen it, take a look, then join in the conversation:

Matthew
I heard the grating metal scraping against the concrete floor as the barred gate of my cell slid open. I lay on the hard cot, head pounding, staring straight ahead at the dingy wall as Detective Arnold's voice sounded behind me, “Mr. McBride? Are we in a bit more civilized mood yet?”

I closed my eyes against his voice, running my hand over my face. I needed to shave. I needed to bathe. Bits of broken pebble and tiny stones came off onto my fingertips. At least I wasn't bleeding anymore. Though it felt like blood was still caked onto my face, my fingers came away dry, and not red.


“Mr. McBride?”

“Did you come to book me?” I asked hoarsely, not bothering to sit up or even roll over to face him. Some other town cop had brought me in here. I'd stopped fighting them in the fort parking lot, allowing them to load me in the police cruiser while I cried like a little bitch. The two extra officers it had taken to bring me to the ground hovered about anxiously until Detective Arnold waved them away, sending me on ahead to the station with only the red-headed cop to bring me in. He'd guessed correctly I was done resisting. The fight had all gone out of me. Nevertheless, I'd been allowed my phone call—I'd selected Tabitha, figuring she was the more reliable, with the choice being between her or Mikey—but through the entire process, the Irish guy had kept me in the handcuffs, not trusting me enough to unlock them. I guess he didn't want me to get any ideas.

I heard his footsteps pressing closer, pausing what must have been only a short distance from me. I still wouldn't give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him.

“Maura Taylor. June 15, 1984.”

I waited for some further explanation, but he left it at that. The silence continued to stretch on between us until, finally, I heard the soft shuffling of the last remaining step he was taking to close the distance between us. I felt my body tense involuntarily as I could hear him breathing above me, feel him bending down toward me. To my surprise, he inserted a key into the side of my handcuffs. A simple twist later, and I relaxed as I gingerly slid my wrists out of the cuffs.

“Who's Maura Taylor?” I reluctantly asked, pulling myself into a sitting position and sliding over on the cot.

To my surprise, Detective Arnold sank down onto the cot beside me. He'd left the cell door wide open. For a brief moment, I considered darting to my feet and scrambling out of there. Running back to the car and driving somewhere far, far away.

But it was just for a fleeting moment, and then the Detective began to talk.

“Maura Taylor. She was a year younger than Melody when I was assigned to her case. The first missing person case I ever had in which the vanished person was an adult, not a kid. She disappeared on June 15, 1984. It was also the first missing person case I was involved in that, to this day, remains unsolved.”

The big man shifted a little, reached into his pocket, removed a wallet. I sat silently as he passed me a faded picture, creased and ragged around the edges. It was of a beautiful woman... a girl who had maybe just graduated college. She had wavy golden hair, a shy smile. Dark eyes. She looked enough like Melody to have been related. A cousin, maybe, or perhaps even a sister.

I glanced up at him. “You still carry this around with you?”


He nodded. “I still see her. Everywhere I go. I wanted to solve that case so bad. I was young then, and she was my age. I couldn't understand how somebody with their whole life ahead of them could just... disappear. So I carry this picture, even though I have no idea what she'd really look like now, if she's even still alive. But I can't help it. She's stayed with me all these years, and so, I think I've caught a glance of her in the grocery store, or at an intersection. Any number of places. By the time I get my wallet out to check the picture, I realize it's just my eyes playing tricks on me. The girl I've seen looks like Maura back then, but she's too young to be her now. Or the woman I've spotted is the right age, but when I get the photo out, I see that even allowing for all the years that have passed and how much she must have changed in her age, that the woman on the street simply doesn't look like Maura Taylor.”

I sat, staring at Maura Taylor's smile. I wondered if she had a boyfriend or a brother who hung up fliers with her picture on it all over town.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Maura was my first unsolved missing person case. She wasn't my last. Tamara Drake, nineteen years old. She disappeared on November 14, 1997. Nicole Evans, thirteen. Missing since July 4, 1999. Edward Davis. Sixty-seven. Wandered away from a senior citizens home on March 18, 2000. Emily Walsh. Just six years old. Missing since January 12, 2002.”

I shook my head. “I don't... I don't understand.”

“They all stay with me!” Detective Arnold was screaming, suddenly. He snatched Maura's photo away from me, pounded a fist against the cot for emphasis.
“Do you hear me, kid? They all stay with me. I am very aware that when I fail, I not only fail them. I fail their families. The people who love them. You don't think I get that? You don't think I know that?”

I stared silently down at my hands, clasped in my lap, watching a tear drip down over the puffy purple bruises encircling my wrists.

“I get it. I get it more than anyone else. I understand that you are mad, frustrated, furious even. But you don't get to tell me I'm not doing anything. You don't get to decide that I don't care.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”


The detective nodded, staring straight ahead now. “We do want to do a search. We had to wait for 72 hours to pass in order to have any chance at convincing the chief that this wasn't a voluntary runaway. And then with the second storm coming, there's no way they'll spare the manpower. We can do a search when Hurricane Fred is over.”

“But then...” I stumbled. “What are the chances of finding her, then? If she's still out there... when a hurricane is coming? What are the chances of finding her... alive?” I hated the sound of the last word, struggled to even get it out. I heard it empty and echoing in the tiny cell. Was there any chance she was still alive?

Detective Arnold turned his glance my way, eyes paternal, sad, but truthful. “Matt,” he said. “It may be that this isn't necessarily a search for Melody right now... so much as it is a search for... well, a search for her remains.”

40th Rejection Party!

Yep... yesterday marked the 40th rejection of my latest completed manuscript (my second novel for which I've ventured down the frustrating, tedious, sometimes heartbreaking journey of querying literary agents).  I know of published authors who've been rejected more often, though, so I'll just continue the writing, praying, hoping, and persevering.  In fact, let's celebrate!  Every rejection I get is one step closer to finding the agent who IS right for my writing.  Take a glance from the sneak peek below... would YOU buy this book?

Tabitha

            “Extra-large coffee.  Black,” I instructed the tattooed barista, sliding a five across the glossy black counter.  Jada, a fixture at Crazy 8’s, nodded and turned away, swiftly grabbing an extra-large cup and filling it with steaming, rich dark coffee.  That was one of the reasons Mel and I liked Crazy 8’s—there weren’t any fru-fru sizes like grande, petite, double grande.  Small, medium, and large coffees.  Extra large if you were in dire need of a caffeine fix.

            “Thanks, Jada,” I said as she passed me my cup and punched the register’s keyboard.  “Hey, have you seen Melody?”

            Jada raised her eyebrows as she counted out my change.  “Melody?  Your blonde-haired friend?  Always in here with you or those two goofy guys?”  I nodded, a desperate twinge of hope rising in my throat.

            “No.  No haven’t seen her,” she held out a couple ones and some coins, her perpetually cranky dark gaze seeming to soften a little.  “Everything okay?”

            I slowly extended my hand for her to deposit the change.  “No.  No, she… she disappeared during the hurricane last night.”

            “No way.”

            I nodded, wishing I was joking.  “She called me a bunch of times at like, three in the morning.  I didn’t answer, and when I tried to call her back today, I couldn’t get a hold of her.  When I drove out to her place, her boyfriend said they’d gotten in an argument last night, and when he and Mel’s brother woke up, they couldn’t find her.  We spent the whole day searching the beach,” I gingerly readjusted my slipping bra strap, sliding it firmly under my tank top and off of my sunburned shoulder.

            “You think she wandered off to the beach?  In the middle of a hurricane?”

            “Well… yeah, we thought she might have.  It… it doesn’t make any sense.  Nothing does.  They said when they got up this morning, her keys were in the car and the car door was wide open,” I took a swallow of my coffee, feeling the burn of the hot liquid spreading down my throat, wishing its warmth could quell my fears. 

            “No shit,” Jada muttered, ducking under the counter and walking out into the lounge area.  “Stay there, drink your coffee.  I’ve got to get started closing, though.  It’s after midnight.”

            “It’s after midnight?  It… it’s Friday?” I asked stupidly.

            Jada nodded, flipping the open sign to closed, sympathetic eyes on mine as she strode back across her shop to start cleaning up.

            I stood helplessly.  “I—I can’t believe we didn’t find her.”

            “You searched the beach all day?”

            “Yeah… I rolled up to Mel’s at about one.  Matt and Mikey and I walked for miles, looked all over the beach until about six o’clock,” I took another sip of the bitter coffee, shuddered a little.   I was too sunburned to be drinking anything hot; a chill ran through my body in spite of the heat radiating from my goose-pimpled flesh. 

            “Actually,” I corrected myself.  “Mikey and I, her brother, we stayed out till about six.  Her boyfriend Matt was out looking even longer.”

            “You say she didn’t have her car?” Jada asked, pausing over the giant metal container of decaf coffee she was dumping into the sink.

            “No.”

            “So you think the beach was the only place she could’ve gone?”

            “Well, that’s what we thought earlier.  I mean, it was a hurricane.  She couldn’t have walked very far.  Assuming she went missing during the storm.  We don’t really know.  I mean, she could’ve taken off this morning, but that doesn’t seem likely, because why would she leave the car door open in broad daylight?  But… we really don’t know if she disappeared during the storm or in the morning.  There’s no way of knowing; we all overslept.”

            Jada was nodding thoughtfully, pouring another cup of coffee.  “On the house,” she said, sliding it across the counter.  Seems like you’re gonna need it, and I was just gonna dump it out, anyway.”

            I nodded a wordless thank you, gulped down the last of my original cup.  “It doesn’t make sense though,” I added, shaking my head.  “I left Matt and Mikey to go check some of the spots she might have been in town… but she couldn’t have gotten that far without a car, even if she did leave in the morning after the storm.”

            “She could’ve taken a cab,” Jada offered.

            I frowned.  “We found her purse.  Debit card still in it.  And her waiter book from the night before… still had her cash tips in it.  I mean, I guess she could’ve taken some of the money from the book, but why would you run away and not take all your cash?  And leave your debit card?”

            Jada turned from me, rag in hand, wiping down her cappuccino machine.

            I stood stupidly, gazing at her back.  The more I said out loud, the more I realized how bad it was.  I thought back to earlier in the day (yesterday, I reminded myself, it’s Friday already).  The look of numbed panic, terrified resignation on her brother’s face.

            “Come on, Mikey,” I rasped, wishing for the millionth time I had a bottle of water.  “It’s been hours.  Like, five hours.  Let’s head back.  Maybe she’s come back to your place.”

            Mikey shook his head, squinting out at the water glinting under the setting sun.  “She’s not come back.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “I do know that.  She… she hasn’t come back, because… well, she just hasn’t.  Something is wrong.”

            “What were they fighting about?” I asked him.

            “I don’t… I don’t know.  She had to pee.  And didn’t want to go outside in the storm.  We were teasing her about it, and she blew up at Matt.  Started screaming at him.  We’d been drinking; he wasn’t in the mood to hear it.  They were yelling back and forth at each other.  It was like, less than a minute, tops.  She jumped up and ran out of the room, and he followed her.” Mikey paused, ran his hands through his hair, over his face.  “He did follow her,” he muttered.

            “Then what?”

            He glared at me.  “You already know.  Matt says he watched her go into their room and shut the door.  He came back in my room, and we kept drinking.  When we woke up this morning… well, you already know.”

            He looked away, eyes drawn back to the quiet crashing of the Atlantic.

            “She could be anywhere,” he muttered.

            “Well—not anywhere,” I began slowly.  “She didn’t take her car.  She had to have been walking.  She could’ve only gone so far.  Unless,” I paused, tugged on his tee-shirt sleeve.  “Unless she disappeared this morning… not during last night’s storm, but this morning.  Maybe she took her purse?  Has anyone looked for her purse yet?”

            Mikey shook his head, a guarded hope coming back into his eyes. 

            “Come on.  Let’s go home and look.  Her car’s here, but we don’t know about her phone.  Maybe her purse is gone too.  Maybe she did take off for a couple of days.”

            With renewed energy, Mikey picked up his pace, nodding as he strode quickly ahead of me.  “You’re right,” he began, casting a quick glance back to me.  “You could be right.” 

            I nodded encouragingly, already realizing how unlikely my new theory was.  If she’d left in the daytime, having to pass her car to go out front to catch a cab, would she have really left the door wide open? 

            “…it is Tabitha, right?” Jada’s voice drew me back into the present.

            I forced a fleeting smile.  “I’m sorry.  I was just—”

            “It’s cool.  I just, you know, I’m all settled here.  Gotta lock up for the night,” she shimmied out from underneath her counter, purse and keys in hand.  “Ready?”

            I stared at Jada’s purse.  It was black, like Melody’s.

            “Her purse is right here, damn it!  Her purse is right here!”  Devastation written across Mikey’s crumpled face as he yanked it off the desk in Melody and Matt’s room.  “Fuck!”

            “Tabitha?”

            “I’m sorry,” I began weakly.  “I just—”

            “And look!” Next to where her purse had been sitting, before he’d snatched it up and released it, before it fell with a solid thunk onto the dingy carpet, there was her black waiter book, the little leather folder, still wrapped clumsily in her stained grey apron from a night of waiting tables the evening before.  I watched, helpless, as he reached for it, jerked it open. “Look!” he’d screamed needlessly, senselessly, pulling the fistful of money out of the side, scattering it wildly into the freezing air (why hadn’t anyone turned the air conditioner off?)  Twenties and fifties and fives and ones swirled through the air, fluttering softly to the floor.  “She left her goddamn money!  Tabitha, she didn’t run away!  She left her damn tips.  She’s gone!  She’s just gone!”