If I had a dollar for every person who has told me they hate faerie books, I wouldn’t have to write any more of them. I get it from with people telling me how surprised they were to like one of mine; I get it from people explaining why they will never read one, mine included. I get it from friends, from other writers, from people in publishing. Maybe vampires or spy novels are hated just as much, but for some reason no one seems as eager to talk about it.
With a new faerie book, The Cruel Prince, coming out, I’ve been thinking a lot about this disinclination. I have come to believe there’s a fear of a certain iridescent, unicorn-hugging, patchouli-scented wiftiness in picking up a faerie novel. A concern over too-great sincerity. And a worry that words like “prithee” and “greensward” and people talking in riddles (or worse, doggerel) indicates a swift descent into the mawkish and silly.