The other day, I figured out that the genre I’m writing is magical realism. It had never occurred to me that writing about a theoretically real place (Barn Swallows’ Dance, an ecocollective) with preternatural guests and a resident demi-god would be magical realism. Especially as the stories feature allegories for all-too-human situations.
I thought my works were just some very subdued contemporary fantasy, some bastard children that would never sell because they’re just not … enough. I wrote the books because of something within me that said they had to be written.
I’ve always wanted to write magical realism. Maybe knowing this will entice me to write.
Words Like Me 