I released my hopes of trade publishing Arkhangelsk, and took my baby back.
I start seeing everything close to me as fragile, even when it isn't.
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.
Today, for now, I'm okay enough.
Genre is a marketing construct.
I guess the story arc I'm writing is just...life.