If I ignore the fact that it's 59˚ out there, I can peer through the window and pretend it's actually late April.
Yesterday, I wrote another 1,215 words on "A Mountain Walked." The post brought my comp copy of
The Mammoth Book of Steampunk: 30 Extraordinary Tales (Running Press), which reprints "The Steam Dancer (1896)." This marks the third
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Oh, thank fuck.
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True.
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They are symbols of the demons lurking within us all, always looking for a way out should the bulwarks of our social rituals ever fail.
Or, as I have seen it mentioned, audience/genre-fan outrage whenever something doesn't fit in our neat, rigid, inviolate audience expectations: a light-grostesque/satire of the author-audience "contract".
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Or, as I have seen it mentioned, audience/genre-fan outrage whenever something doesn't fit in our neat, rigid, inviolate audience expectations: a light-grostesque/satire of the author-audience "contract".
Well, I think that goes without saying, and doesn't negate anything said here. We don't have an either/ situation. Certainly, what you're saying is true. The audience's nose is being rubbed in their own comfortable expectations.
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Amy Acker is all the world needs.
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