Someone on Twitter wished authors could be “mystical” again—writing stories that let readers project their own meanings without accountability. That’s not mysticism. That’s cowardice dressed in artistic pretension. My novels are Rorschach tests, but the inkblot has teeth. They contain explicit moral architecture that forces readers to reveal their relationship to impossible choices: Sacrifice a friend’s soul to save millions? Accept peaceful reform that costs women’s bodies? Choose between your daughter and revolution? How you respond tells me everything about what you actually believe when principles collide with survival. Fiction that interrogates you isn’t mystical. It’s craft.