I don’t mean to imply that all my fiction is crap – as a writer that’s really not my decision. In fact, I believe that anyone who truly dives into writing as art eventually places him/herself outside any normal perspective. I'm totally unable to judge the quality of my writing because I'm so deep into the structure and style and voice that I’ve lost any other viewpoint.
My writing may be genius. It may be crap. I have no idea.
When I talk of my disappointment, it’s meant as the overall feeling I get when comparing the final product with the creative arc. Or more plainly: the “what it could have been” to “what it is”.
That might not be fair, yet it’s the way it is.
BoTS is not even close to the dynamic organic mystery I wanted it to be. I’m not out to tell a story. I’m not even striving to entertain. I’ve always endeavored to develop much more in my fiction. I love to work in layers. I want complexity. I want mystery. I want my reader to wonder what the fuck is going on … until a moment clicks and then suddenly it’s all “Aaaaah, I see.”
With BoTS I hoped to dissect a life, and then join it all back together in some sort of Frankensteinian monster of memories. We all selectively remember our past. That makes us who we are. I wanted to show that. I wanted to blow a man apart and put him back together.
Overall, I think I’ve fallen far short.