What I create is not a world, not a lifetime, not a history, narrative, saga, novel. I do not shape a complete circle of birth and death, morning and night in my hands. Instead, what I twist and mold and fire into being is a fragment, a sliver of something that has no greater whole. I do not write primary, but secondary. My beloved creations are the ones which exist on the fringes of society, the minor tragedies that play out in your peripheral vision, unnoticed and meaningless. They are secondary characters, given breath to move some greater story along and then soon after are tossed to the wayside to rot in anonymity. They have neither past nor future, but only this singular moment which preserves them as if under glass and traps them in one age, one form, one instant. They cannot be any more than this, ever, and are so easily forgotten, so easily dismissed and discarded. Fiction’s leftovers, they gather in the gutters and the eaves and the shadows, collecting like dingy autumn leaves. You cannot ask any more than this from them, or from me. We are temporary; we are fragmented; we are slaves to the story. We are secondary characters only.

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