Instead of upping the presentation-to-content ratio, & bringing your praxis into line with everyone else’s, you could ask yourself why you’re writing. As a result you might find you want to submit the story by stencilling it on to sixteen roughly torn sections of newsprint & burying it in some corner of a South Ossetian field at midnight. For a little more adventure, move to Rotherham & paint it, a sentence at a time, on randomly chosen cinderblock walls (no wall being closer than fifty meters to any other but all face north) over the next seven years. Or for stay-at-homes do what I often do: keep it on your hard drive until the mother of crashes makes it unavailable to anyone except a Scottish man with big frizzy hair & a complete collection of Tank Girl comics.
I’m not being perverse. Well, not entirely.