I'm writing voraciously with an instinct for finishing that never quite occurred in previous years, and with a glee about my work that was usually washed over by melancholy and pretence in previous years (though I'm still coloured bloodred and grey, and I'm still insufferably proud and pretentious…). I'm in school for writing, and it's taken me aback how organized and how successful writers can be, but it's also progressed my work dramatically and made it so I actively create and am constantly aware of how to make my mind work better on paper. The common message seems to be that I use incredibly detailed and descriptive language to map out really interesting scenes where no one has any idea what's going on. Which makes me laugh. And couldn't be more true.

This is to say that I have a lot written that I want to show people, both tangible people and the ether. I'm considering posting here, and I'm considering posting on my blog, but the main content of the former was written when I was 17, and the latter is splattered with innards of a relationship long dissolved. Both are necessary to my portrait and my experimentation, but neither present an accurate picture. But this is to say: there may be new life here.

Another thing: it's been a long while since I dedicated myself to this community, and I'm considering in some part returning. I've missed my awareness of the kind of writing that's in formation, and I've missed the platform for youth and romanticism. So it's possible I'll be more present. It's also possible I'll lay it to rest. 

In a sort of vague and telling way, that's where I am. Writing speculative fiction, dreaming about a single non-existent lover, reading Jane Austen and Neil Gaiman, and living an odd kind of displacement. There you are.