I realize how arrogant it is to claim I can sort what is relevant from what is irrelevant. - Caitlín R. Kiernan

Eva was only a slut. She never had the requisite motivation to be anything so useful or lucrative as a whore.

Hay un tirafondo de vía incrustado en mi ojo izquierdo y gremlins correteando en mi cráneo mientras golpean cacerolas y sartenes. Goblins de cráneo

There are many words and phrases that should be forever kept out of the hands of book reviewers. It's sad, but true. And one of these is "self-indulgent." And this is one of those things that strikes me very odd, like reviewers accusing an author of writing in a way that seems "artificial" or "self-conscious." It is, of course, a necessary prerequisite of fiction that one employ the artifice of language and that one exist in an intensely self-conscious state. Same with "self-indulgent." What could possibly be more self-indulgent than the act of writing fantastic fiction? The author is indulging her- or himself in the expression of the fantasy, and, likewise, the readers are indulging themselves in the luxury of someone else's fantasy. I've never written a story that wasn't self-indulgent. Neither has any other fantasy or sf author. We indulge our interests, our obsessions, and assume that someone out there will feel as passionately about X as we do.