I write stuff.
I finished reading The Lord of the Rings when I was eleven years old and immediately began writing crappy Tolkien Mary Sue, because I wanted to read more books like that and there just weren’t any, in those days.
I wrote dozens and dozens of Crappy Tolkien Mary Sues, until one day in the late 1970s a for-real Tolkien knockoff was actually published (the first in what was to become a deluge of them) and I said “Oh, my god, what a horrible thing to do!” Throwing all of my CTMSs into a heap, I used them as kindling to burn that book, vowing from then on to write only original stuff.
I don’t write Tolkien knockoffs anymore, but I still write the kind of thing I wish I could find more of in book stores. That kind of thing tends to have fantastical elements, but takes place in a real and modern setting. I don’t mean just in the Cotswolds, either, because that doesn’t count as a real place. There are generally no swords or pre-gunpowder weapons, and there are no wizards. There are faeries, but you had better not dare call them that. There are ghosts, but they are not evil and do not all dream of nothing but horrifying and dismembering the living, because, seriously? Like Nell’s T-shirt says: Ghosts are People, Too!
I guess mainly what I write is stuff designed to appeal to adults who wish to be enchanted without being horrified, while reading about protagonists their own age. That is to say: without having to resort to the children’s section of the bookstore. There’s a reason why most “Young Adult” literature is actually read by adult adults.
Oh, and my female leads have been around the block enough times to be completely over the whole “gorgeous testosterone-poisoned hunk you hate at first but who magically, through the power of love, turns into our heroine’s True Love by the end of the story” thing. I mean: Barf!