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224 pages, Paperback
Published November 11, 2025
Apparently, I’m not of the literary moment.
Okay.
Sally has either lost interest or is trying to get her to reveal herself in some way.
That was my last feedback.
On what?
Just a piece of flash fiction.
What needs to happen, Sally asks, in a piece of flash fiction, to make it flash fiction?
Every time she says flash fiction it sounds more like the punchline to a joke, something Dylan’s invented to hide the fact she’s unable to manage something more substantial on the page. The last thing she had published was back in London, two short stories just before she left, but she’s failed to build on this momentum in New York. For some reason only able to deal in fragments.
Decent flash fiction, Sally clarifies—the kind that makes it into the tiny cannon.
She makes herself laugh with this question.
Dylan shrugs, closes her eyes.
Anyway, you’re good at little moves, says Sally. You know, flipping something or coming at it weirdly. Trickster, Sally means. Word clown. Impressive how casually she’s managing to nail her shortcomings.
It’s a novel I’m working on, says Dylan.
So, you identify as novel. Did the feedback say what moment you are of ?
Not so much.
She thought about this when she got the rejection; not what moment she might belong to, but what the Literary Moment might be, if there is one, and she is not inside it. Some moment writers share together, that’s not a part of the other moment—the clock one—split in their being, as they are anyway, in one place writing, but also in the elsewhere they’re creating. Regardless, it’s no surprise to hear she’s out of step, with the moment, herself, whatever.