Raymond Carver once said, in an interview, that he wrote short stories because he did not have the time to write novels. He had to work. He had to buy food. Wash. Sleep. Eat. He had to do all the domestic stuff that keeps us alive.
He wasn’t rich. He didn’t have the luxury of space, or time, or a private income that would allow him to complete a novel. But short stories, these he could write in one sitting.
It was, he explained, a simple matter of logistics.
This is my roundabout way of excusing why I didn’t finish the gods. And why Murton Passport is so short and fractured.