The universe supports my return to short forms, it seems; less than twelve hours later, an acceptance appeared. I'm permitted to play. I don't need to devote years to a story for it to see the light.
Thing is, I'm not satisfied with the majority of what I'm reading. I want emotional heft blended with stunning sentences and blazing characters. I want to reimagine what I thought I knew. And if I can't, I hope to write those stories.
Yet I have always struggled with place. Not brass and well-dressed enough to be popular, but sociable enough to hold a middle ground. An athlete and wearer of bright pink writing twisted speculative stories. More grounded in reality than these haphazard vegans, yet more fanciful than those on the 9-5. I am not on the outside, but have never felt fully on the inside, into the finite and definable.