I can't help myself adding a slice of wry humour when the going gets tough. When I feel the need for a cathartic guffaw, I'm guessing my readers do too. I'm with DMC on themes. I am having trouble with my book's genre though. Thriller? Not really. Mystery? Certainly not. Romance? Only a dash. Science fiction or fantasy? Not if I can help it. Autobiography? Move along there please. Nothing to see. Literary fiction? Are you joking? Adventure? Only if you squint at it with one eye.
So it's an agent's worst nightmare. Something that might not look right. But I don't care anymore. The story calls to me. There's a cast of characters now that gossip behind my back if I don't get on with their tales. Yesterday I had a near tragic road crash simply because I discovered Commer van's handbrakes are connected to the front wheels.
I've had to accept my book, filled with stuff I care about and rattling around in my head for years just is what it is. I can't stop now. I've had to accept that few may ever read any of it, but it is a delight to write and maybe the one I have to get out of my system before I get to grips with a more marketable effort. Who wants to read about the jeapody faced by a community of bacteria in the gut of a lizard when a new strain arrives on the block? Ok. I lied about that last bit.
I sympathise with you. I'm in the same boat, I've taken up other writing projects including two NaNoWriMo during which I wrote more than 60,000 and 70,000 words on totally different themes but then the bug of THE story comes back.