Working hard to find a home for a story that's got crooked bones and a thin layer of downy white hair.
Used to be, I would only send work to markets I knew. But this strange little tale grew up funny, bled over into genre, so I went wandering outside my sphere and into the dazzling rave of genre mags.
Some fine work being done there. Seems steep competition ups the ante on innovation while still holding its hand out for the basics: skilled writing that has been carefully and completely edited before submission.
We'll see if my little goose finds a nest. Any road, I'm heartened by what I saw of the genre markets, and a little jealous: with some notable exceptions, mainstream literary fiction mags don't have the same POP, the same persistent beating heart beneath the floorboards.
Shame, too, because even though they have dragons and scythes and man eating babies, I think we could take them down. Or at least hold them down, and make them tell us their secrets.