There are many excellent writers of weird fiction who will not be remembered. I expect to be one of them (well, the ‘not remembered’ rather than the ‘excellent’ bit). But let’s not indulge in the cheerful supportive stuff for a moment, and let’s be real.

I (and perhaps you) have an inventiveness, a voice, and possibly a degree of craft, which exceed those of many authors who sell hundreds of thousands of copies of their books. I will never achieve those levels of sales. And you’re not supposed to say it, but I’m fairly sure I’m a more accomplished writer than a number of people who have contracts with the Big Five publishers. Yet I am largely unknown, whereas people who mass-produce often tedious, by-the-numbers novels have delightful fan clubs and an enthusiastic reception for every new work.

This is what is. It could be that you make choices. You might choose intense, solitary production of work which matters to you, and which has the slim chance of being noticed by serious literary critics, or which may only suit enthusiasts of a specific sub-genre. You might employ moderate use of social media, and hope that your presence and your work gradually seep into the public consciousness. Or you might spend many hours informing yourself about the creation of an audience – marketing, promotion, writer and reviewer networks; newsletters, constant timely book deals and utilisation of every trick in the book. Freebies, swag, book tours, mutual promotion schemes and all that jazz.

Or maybe, sometimes, you don’t feel you have a choice. You are not the sort of person who can do those latter things. You abhor them for the commercialised nonsense which is attached to the game, or you cannot, temperamentally, engage with it. You are a writer, not a witty, social engine. You deliver carefully, even painstakingly, constructed fictions which spring from deep experiences and emotions. You have doubts about the quality of your work, and fear that others will see flaws which are not even in there.

Or – let’s dig relentlessly – you feel that you yourself and/or your approach to writing are marginalised. You feel you are a Voice that They don’t want to hear. There are cliques and cadres of other writers, and it may not be true that you aren’t welcome, but you feel that way. It may be true, but not as often as you think it is. Many are a different gender, colour or sexual orientation to you. They seem to have the control and confidence which you have never raised, or which has been ground out of you.

These are the things we face; the days we inhabit. I’m a positive soul, but I don’t believe in pretending that the issues I mention above don’t exist. Nor do I ignore the fact that some people are not inherently very good writers, and that they should steer themselves more to the pleasure of having created, and have family and friends who thought it neat, and leave it there. Is the grind of years of craft development and thankless, badly-paid work worth taking it any further?

For those of us who must, for those who persevere and those who appear to have a natural literary grace, it is not necessarily any better than it is for those who write a few pieces for their friends, sit back and feel pleased. Maybe seventy three people will get it. Or forty three. It is said that many, many books sell less than one hundred copies. Others might have considered a purchase, but they have never heard of you or your book. They never will.

Large numbers of writers, a century and more ago, wrote ten, fifty, a hundred novels – huge novels – and hundreds of magazine stories. They are remembered for three or four anthologised supernatural tales, and most of their work is gone. Some of it was written from the heart, and had important social and literary relevance; some of it – the bulk – was mediocre and written to pay the bills.

I chose to write short stories at the age of fifty seven. And I could, if I wanted, cripple myself by dwelling on what has been lost, what would have happened if I’d done this ten, twenty, thirty years earlier. I wrote drafts of grimdark novels when the term didn’t exist; I have seen inventive twists I came up with thirty years ago employed and then over-employed in genre fiction. I drafted Imperial Gothic and ‘Penny Dreadful’ storylines before they were popular. So what? I wasn’t there at the right time, and it’s just tough luck.

I do not inhabit, fully, the zeitgeist of weird fiction, and will not achieve that status of being revered or mentioned frequently by the serious afficionados. I could complain about the lack of attention to certain of my dark and serious pieces, and the delightful though bizarre interest in others of less obvious worth. I could wonder if I made poor choices about genre and tone. But it’s just tough luck.

There are no cheering words, not in the sense that you might hope. A rising tide does not float all boats, however much we hope it does. It lifts some of them, but maybe not your boat or mine. There is only one reconciliation, one charitable act for your own good, and that is to acknowledge every fault, flaw and limitation of yourself and the entire writing and publishing world. And then get on with it.

To say yes, it is like this. And some of it is awful, unfair and even vicious in its impact. But you and I write. It matters to us, and it is what is.

I am a writer, and really, I’m quite glad I am. One voice which say “I liked that”, or “That affected me” is more than no voices. Infinitely more…