I'm spoiled. I've been spoiled for several years. And it isn't really a good thing.
I sell almost every short story I write, quite often to the first or second editor to whom I submit them.
When I'm feeling good, I tell myself, "I really know my markets." When I'm not feeling good, I tell myself, "I'm not stretching myself."
When I started writing again in late December--after 3.5 months of negligible effort caused, it appears, by medication I began taking following a quadruple bypass in September and ceased taking a few days before Christmas--I wrote several stories outside my usual comfort zone, including an erotic vampire story and a P.I./fantasy cross-genre story.
As the weeks pass, I find myself more and more concentrating my efforts on the same-old same-old. Oh, sure, I've been targeting Woman's World since the beginning of the year, but I'm targeting a new market, not a new genre.
Before something starts to smell around here, perhaps I need to push myself a little harder. I need to stretch my writing muscles. I need to write fiction outside my comfort zone and not settle for selling the short stories I already know I can write.
Maybe I'll even create new genres:
Instead of writing Chick Lit, I'll write Hick Lit.
I'll combine mystery subgenres and write Hardboiled Cozies or Cozy Noir.
Or maybe I'll just try to finish another novel.