ahahhahahaa the fuck does literary fiction even mean. you mean a more mythical style of writing deserves more academic attention than others? to emphasize the importance of one set of words over another? no story deserves to be shelved based on the fact whether or not there’s a life lesson or commentary on society.
it’s about what you find yourself emotionally and physically attached to, what memories you suddenly find yourself reliving or wishing to have, if you’re going to look at the world the same after the last page.
don’t make me pigeon hole myself in my query letter. don’t ask me as if all my books are going to be forever written for one genre based on archaic, marketing guidelines.
my book is not literary fiction but it hell aint as simple as ‘romance’
Like I said, random snippet from chapter 2. So far I’ve written 5 chapters (120 pages on google doc), so I’m quite proud of the progress. Mind you, this teaser hasn’t been thoroughly edited, but I promised to get a teaser out, and here it is.
You walked by me this morning wearing a black shirt and black shorts that reached right above your knees. Your legs are thin, but not skinny jeans thin, and there wasn’t much hair. You have brown hair that’s short in the back and curls up in the front… I think. I didn’t get to see your face.
You have a tattoo of a musical bar line wrapped around your arm. Notes to a song you like, I suppose. My first thought was to say, “Nice tattoo,” just so you would turn around.
But I didn’t. Not because I was shy, but because making you a reality would destroy a fantasy. So I let you walk ahead until we parted ways.
There’s something incredibly beautiful about a person who can’t be bothered to give a shit, and yet has a fragile soul. They are made of a very specific kind of apathy that buries a deep felt hurt.
These are the kind of people who give off an angry front, have parents shying their children closer to their bodies. Pain hardens their face into flat planes. Emotions aren’t visible until they open their mouths… Only rather than venom leaking from their lips, it’s always just a simple question that makes you tremble.
It’s the pause before they speak, how they command the silence to judge you even before they have. What you imagine would be a petty retort, a dismissive phrase, is instead the scratching question against the walls of your brain - like markings on a prison wall, counting towards freedom. Only now you’re tallying up the days, wondering about the worth of your existence.
I thought about suggesting you to download this new app my friends and I have been using. Maybe it would be easier to keep in contact with an app that’s connected with you 24/7, cause we failed on the texts, the phone calls, the facebook, the gchats, the tumblr, the snapchat, etc…. “So maybe…” then I gave up because I would have to text you that, and the last message we exchanged was in May. I don’t think you even know I’m halfway across the world right now.
Only a fool would believe that a social media app isn’t the thing that keeps us talking to each other rather than the person itself. We’ve exhausted all options of communication, I guess.