Blog Dis
The road not taken...
2026-05-12
It is by far his most renowned poem, The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost, a man born in the sunny state of California, in San Francisco no less but I shan't hold that against him, being born in a flaky state, for the man writes as though he belongs in the winterized paths of snowed over Canadian forests, stopping in his tracks to make that all but fateful decision to take the road less traveled.
I identify with Robert's poem because it most closely resembles how I feel being an independent author of erotic-horror-vampire fiction, as well as with regard to my latest ditty, which is a brick of a book, a genre that I call Hybrid Fantasy, because it blends High Fantasy with Urban Paranormal. I'm not fussy, actually. You can call it high fantasy and the label still applies. Being an Indie author means you're considered the pariah of the arts world. When in reality, the term indie rings true for those who produce Indie films or manage Indie record labels and those who flout independent painters who are supported by independent art galleries. Be brave enough to announce that you're an Indie author and a team of curmudgeon editors holed up in a dusty, old office a the top of Charing Cross Road in London will instantly fart liquid disgust at the thought of giving credence to an Indie author — for shame you charlatan! I say bullocks to the whole of 'em!
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Simply put, his words are beautiful, poignant, true and understated. Those who've battled an uphill struggle, to break into a seemingly unbreakable market of an industry deluged with over 40,000 new fiction titles every year in North America, will understand what it means to go it alone... well, it's truly the road less traveled.
In years to come, maybe I'll look and know it has made all the difference. I can't imagine a publisher allowing Chapter 6 in The Crimson Boy to make it to print without first pulling out a pair of scissors and performing surgery on it to make it more palatable to the gentle reader, nor can I see a publisher rubber stamping The Crimson Man and it's pivotal buggery scene, upon which the motivation is based for the impaled character to attack the novel's principle character Samuel Crimson. You have to read both novels to know about which I refer.
Indie novels are for the kind of minds that seek out a bold challenge and a taste of difference that attacks the taste buds with an exotic flavor. You're not supposed to find them in the supermarket next to the latest and greatest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. Rather, indie novels are the stuff of break-outs, spread by the word of eager mouths, gaining in momentum as the public slowly comes to the conclusion, "Hey... did you hear about that novel by P.K. McCarthy? My word! I couldn't read it on the bus. It got me so turned on..."
I believe Robert Frost couldn't have predicted the impact of his poem, any more than I'm able to foretell the long term impact my indie novels may have on the literary community. Call me conceited but I've learned through other artists that if you don't believe fervently in your talents and your art, then how can you expect anyone else to believe in you?
And as for Mr. Frost, the preface of his collection of poems cites that the "difference" was inside Mr. Frost from the beginning, long before he'd even set out on his career path of poetry. The different road was the right road for Mr. Frost, as it is for me.
I should only be so lucky to enjoy the "difference" with as much claim to fame as Mr. Frost.
I identify with Robert's poem because it most closely resembles how I feel being an independent author of erotic-horror-vampire fiction, as well as with regard to my latest ditty, which is a brick of a book, a genre that I call Hybrid Fantasy, because it blends High Fantasy with Urban Paranormal. I'm not fussy, actually. You can call it high fantasy and the label still applies. Being an Indie author means you're considered the pariah of the arts world. When in reality, the term indie rings true for those who produce Indie films or manage Indie record labels and those who flout independent painters who are supported by independent art galleries. Be brave enough to announce that you're an Indie author and a team of curmudgeon editors holed up in a dusty, old office a the top of Charing Cross Road in London will instantly fart liquid disgust at the thought of giving credence to an Indie author — for shame you charlatan! I say bullocks to the whole of 'em!
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Simply put, his words are beautiful, poignant, true and understated. Those who've battled an uphill struggle, to break into a seemingly unbreakable market of an industry deluged with over 40,000 new fiction titles every year in North America, will understand what it means to go it alone... well, it's truly the road less traveled.
In years to come, maybe I'll look and know it has made all the difference. I can't imagine a publisher allowing Chapter 6 in The Crimson Boy to make it to print without first pulling out a pair of scissors and performing surgery on it to make it more palatable to the gentle reader, nor can I see a publisher rubber stamping The Crimson Man and it's pivotal buggery scene, upon which the motivation is based for the impaled character to attack the novel's principle character Samuel Crimson. You have to read both novels to know about which I refer.
Indie novels are for the kind of minds that seek out a bold challenge and a taste of difference that attacks the taste buds with an exotic flavor. You're not supposed to find them in the supermarket next to the latest and greatest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. Rather, indie novels are the stuff of break-outs, spread by the word of eager mouths, gaining in momentum as the public slowly comes to the conclusion, "Hey... did you hear about that novel by P.K. McCarthy? My word! I couldn't read it on the bus. It got me so turned on..."
I believe Robert Frost couldn't have predicted the impact of his poem, any more than I'm able to foretell the long term impact my indie novels may have on the literary community. Call me conceited but I've learned through other artists that if you don't believe fervently in your talents and your art, then how can you expect anyone else to believe in you?
And as for Mr. Frost, the preface of his collection of poems cites that the "difference" was inside Mr. Frost from the beginning, long before he'd even set out on his career path of poetry. The different road was the right road for Mr. Frost, as it is for me.
I should only be so lucky to enjoy the "difference" with as much claim to fame as Mr. Frost.
