This post is based on articles from The Toast.
Companion post: How to tell if you’re in an Inka York short story
How to tell if you’re in an Inka York novel …
If you throw an amulet, it will land around the neck of a queer person.
You are a twin.
You are related to at least one archangel, probably the foppish one.
You are a soft boy who sews pockets into dresses, or cooks for and feeds everyone, or wears lipstick called Evil Twin, or stops the car to move small animals to the side of the road.
You have pretty eyes and a mouth like a scythe.
You live in a wonky English country house with priest holes, secret tunnels and underground libraries OR in a warehouse just outside of Swindon.
You have a sentient vehicle that loves you as much as it hates you.
You are an artist, probably the kind that mauls things before painting them.
An old man in a stupid hat is making your life hell.
You own a derelict prison full of magical contraband that can only be accessed through a portal in an armchair full of demons. You remain unaware of what a terrible idea this is.
Gin is for peasants.
You’re like a snowman without a halo.
A goat is following you.
Your son has called you a garish pansy at least once this week.
You keep a list of bones you haven’t broken yet.
There are wasps.
The men in your family haunt you with Charles Aznavour records.
The carpet looks like Francis Bacon painted it.
It smells like fudge and furniture polish.
You make necklaces out of teeth.
Your little sister insists you wear matching cosplay, and now you’re a unicorn at a wedding reception.