If two of my space traveling characters enter a room and only one comes out, but the room is left a wreck and strange viscera is found dripping off its walls and furniture, no more needs to be said. Either the aliens participated in unspeakable sex or in unstoppable violence. Readers can settle on what occurred through a combination of context clues and their own fancies.
Pretending that writing is a cure-all is neither realistic nor a matter of simple pencil pushing; writing wrought right takes determination and inexorably triggers dissonance. There are no shortcuts to formulating assiduous discourse irrespective of tyros’ behests. It doesn’t matter whether or not a corpus of writing spotlights dust bunnies dwelling beneath sofas, Komodo dragons riding in subway cars, or overfriendly calico felines dangling from barstools; transforming ideas into finished pieces is strenuous.
To hand over abnormal perceptions of society, one must be coldly sane.
Folks who create manuscripts are able or not and are civil or not. The best writers with whom to work, understandably, are both masterful and well-mannered. The worst are neither competent nor courteous. Capable writers who are rude, but produce great copy, are annoying. Inexpert writers, who are accommodating, but write stuff and nonsense, are a waste of editors’ time.
I am a world of one participating in a universe of many. My bits and bobs are arranged as nonstandard, impractical commodities contemporaneous with being disposed as normative and utilitarian. My blends are not patently better or worse than are others’ initiatives. Any merit attached to my work derives from my deliberations being a seizable voice. One size never fit all and never will. At best, my declarations suit some persons, sometimes. Even so, few deeds delight me more than producing word assemblages. I am happiest when exercising my mind, videlicet, when storytelling.