There is something that you notice about yourself when you've had to come up with story ideas for many years. That is how embarrassingly revealing they are about your psyche. I get very exasperated about how easy I find it to make up stories about lost, childlike things (or lost children for that matter), about kooky creatures who find acceptance just by being themselves or about magical beings who come and sort everything out for you. I also do combinations. Lately, I find the same story has got turned outward. In Cheese Belongs to You and I am Henry Finch the question seems to be: what the hell is going on out there anyway??
I guess I'd rather that than find I'd written American Psycho. I do try and write other kinds of stories but they never work out... I suppose they lack authenticity ^-^.