the host is rushing 'twixt night and day

And … draft.

Sorta. It's been a long time since I've written anything so amazingly chaotic, that changed so much during the writing that now, at the end (and I use the word end rather loosely, because the last 7+ scenes are in fact simply a 2,000 word note to myself for when I run across them in the next revision), I can quite literally and confidently say: I have no idea what I've just written.

It's not a book. Yet. It is currently 135,000 words of … exploration?

It started out as a novel about faeries. It seems, actually, to be about biological discrimination, mental wellbeing and normalcy, and to have not a single faerie after all.

Huh. Would you look at that.