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I had my final writing class last night. As I left, I was sad, because it has been a great place to be for the past... 12 weeks? Really? Wow.

But something else overcame me in the dwindling moments. Maybe it was fed by a sense of panic... last chance to get in questions before I become a faceless member of the crowd instead of a student. As I left, I grew afraid.

I grew afraid for my writing. I grew afraid that if, somehow, I managed to complete this novella, get it published, I would become a genre writer. There's nothing wrong with being a genre writer. But it's not all I am. I write delicate prose, and small poetry, and autobiographical musings. I write fantasy and sci-fi and modern speculative. I've just never faced head on the possibility that I may be successful one day in only a small part of my writing. That a step forward in one realm won't automatically mean a step forward to everything I produce. It's strange.

I also grew afraid of my writing. And this was more visceral and more intangible. I can't tell you why, but for a few steps along the sidewalk, my writing was this entity outside of myself. It was primal and moon, and I was afraid of it. It could hurt me. It would hurt me. I wanted it to hurt me, in a way that I've only felt in dreams about the Dawn. And it came down to a few lines of poetry I wrote months back, ones that continue to resonate. My writing wants to eat the world.

the seers are drowned
the prophets are dead
and this is the edge of the waking world

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What have I told you? Time and time again, I have said to you the same thing: genre fiction is art, too.

The edge is the only place.

Ahem, as a something-that-wants-to-eat-the-world, I can tell you that there is no limiting what I (or in your case, your writing) might do. Don't worry, though- your writing probably won't hurt you, as it needs you alive and willing to continue its plot. Just sayin'.

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