I start seeing everything close to me as fragile, even when it isn't.
I was taught it was sensible and sane and somehow made some kind of sense, because ultimately we were dealing with Leaders, who were always sensible and sane.
There are parts that are hard for me to read, and I wrote the thing. But it ends in the right place.
There's nothing new except what has been forgotten. And in SFF, stuff gets forgotten a lot.
Dude, I'm just writing stories.
Fair and unfair suggest some kind of cosmic scales that lean toward balance. No such thing exists.
There's a temptation, when publishing a short story, to explain it.
I have stuff I want to have written, and that means I have work to do.
Is my mind more organized? No, it is not!
Rage doesn't help. Sorrow doesn't, either. Both reactions are appropriate.