Darby Harn: It’s In Our Blood
I don’t believe the fantastic and the realistic are oil and water—I don’t know they’re necessarily different things. The circumstances may be ‘unreal’ but I can’t think of a reason why the people would be.
I don’t believe the fantastic and the realistic are oil and water—I don’t know they’re necessarily different things. The circumstances may be ‘unreal’ but I can’t think of a reason why the people would be.
Lots of things that are awesome are not very good at all.
A baby grew from the apple tree in the backyard last spring. Not quite a baby; a little shrunken fetus that was maybe only two or three months along.
Bereavement seems to be a recurring theme in my stories. We all experience loss, in one way or another, and grief alters us.
The store keeper’s daughter is bold. She’s the only one that dares to address me. “It’s your fault that it’s always winter.”
It’s classic Twilight Syndrome—trying to save the tortured bad boy/girl. It’ll only lead to heartbreak and therapy and frankly, they’re not as interesting as they’d like you to think.
A girl drops down from the branches where she’s been perching like some tree frog in black. She starts strolling along behind me, imitating my walk like a bad mime.
You know, voice is usually the thing that makes a story work for me in my head so I can write it, period. Tons of half-finished stories litter my folders because I don’t know their voice.
Let’s start when the children reported the fairy in the attic.