When you think your short story is the whole fish, but it soon becomes clear that it is not—so you slice it open & discover it’s just the glistening, delicate roe.

When you think your short story is a lazy summer afternoon, but it stretches into a week-long vacation, which means it's a novel.

When you think your novel is a bunch of beets, but it's actually just the tops--the leaves and stems, roughly chopped and sauteed in olive oil with garlic. And a little salt and red pepper flakes.

When you think your poem is a miniature, set in gold, brush stroke so fine you can't see them, but actually it's a cameo carved in agate.

When you think your story is a many-limbed imaginary monster, and it’s actually a ghostly deep sea creature that has yet to be discovered.

When you think your story is the tear-stained pages of a secret diary, and it's actually a telegram from your favorite aunt--the one who wears coral lipstick and chunky jewelry.

When you think your poem is a faded neon concert flier tacked to a telephone pole, and it's actually the welter of rusted staples on the other side of the pole.