I really like the grainy textured design at the top of the page that my web-designer guy put together. I think it capures the essence of what I mean by raw fiction, Rough and unfished. That's me. Those who have read it know my writing is hardly polished. Let's not talk about typos again. The term of art is "dirty prose." Dirty fiction has another connotation altogether. I'm sticking to raw.
I envisioned the website as a place to germinate fiction. But now I'm told my idea of airing short-story drafts can be construed as publishing them -- and thereby jeopardizing their chance of being picked up by real publishers. My scheme is in ruins. The platform must be "repurposed." I speak a little tech.
In the worst case scenario it's still a place to help promate My Life as a Cadaver and redirect the novel on its path to obscurity. The idea of rekindling interest in my human rights book Levi's Children is pure fantasy.
Linking the site to a moribund gallery of long-expired news articles in the Morgue secton is a vestage of my old website. Irrelevent nostalgia.
I'm ready to start counting "hits."