Once upon a time, my sophomore English teacher asked me if I was going to be a writer and I, having a cavalier attitude that day, said, “Oh, yeah.” My tone exuded carelessness, lest she suspect.
Her immediate response? “But… not fantasy, right?” Because, obviously, writing fantasy would be the biggest waste of time and talent known to mankind. And I, already embroiled in composing the first novel of an epic fantasy trilogy, simply smiled and said nothing.
(Silence neither confirms nor denies. The smile just messes with people.)
I didn’t honestly admit to my writing until about ten years later. Instead I kept that part of my life hidden like one would hide the very worst of vices. When I finally spilled my dirty little secret—in my parents’ basement, to three siblings and a cousin—it felt like I was confessing to a drug addiction instead.
But writing isn’t nearly as disreputable as drugs, so.
Another five years passed before I actually finished my first novel (Book #1 of that epic trilogy, which still only has two books). I opted to indie-pub a couple years after that. Since then, I’ve bounced through dystopia-lite, rewritten fairy tales, Beowulf-inspired adventures, and time travel. The epic trilogy-that-isn’t bides its time in the shadows.
Long story short, I’m a writer. I’m a fantasy writer. And I love it. I love the versatility that a fantasy setting gives. Themes, characters, magic and mayhem: I love all of it. So to my sophomore English teacher I say, “Yes, fantasy.”
Because in the end, all fiction is fantasy in one way or another. Some of it’s simply more up front about it.
As of May 2017, I have an imprint, Eulalia Skye Press. The site hosts my book publishing announcements and summaries of my backlist.