Part of being Ever-Dying is your drive: you explore. It’s why your symbol on the Great Wheel is a boat. You never stop searching, never stop looking, peeking under every shadow, shining light down every hole. You care about why more than we do.
More snippets! More Notte! I hadn’t really planned for him to be in this scene, but here it is, anyway!
It sounds like exaggeration, does it not? I was there, and it is still difficult to credit.
Sir Pratchette wrote 400 words a day to create Discworld. Imagine what you can do with yours.
This week, let’s make ourselves a pact. I’ll stop comparing myself to other writers – and so will you.
Do you know this game? If you’re a writer, you do: It’s where you write a draft, but it’s not right, so you put it aside and try again. And again.
If this describes you, congratulations! You’re a writer. And there’s hope for your draft.
She guided me – taught me, which by design should not have been possible – to never kill children, to avoid the unwisdom of well-armed cities. She
taught me, friend, to stop before my prey would die.
I had discovered a state of existence other than hunger, and I wanted more. Tranquility spins a siren-song of its own.
Tiny yearning tugged at me. What would I find, if I could find my way there?
They did not grow old. They never knew illness. They could be injured, but they healed, and they never simply lingered. All this was why Jonathan made no sense.
Just a sample from a new story I’m working on. (Context? What’s that?)
This was amazing food.
» Read more about: WIP: For Daws to Peck At »
Writing after a dry period is really hard, but there’s no secret to getting back into it. There are only a few simple steps.
These two things seem contradictory. Spoiler alert: they’re not.
We write our stories, and we do the best we can. For many of us, that means we write from perspective born of backgrounds we didn’t control, educations we weren’t aware were cheap, and information we didn’t know was dated.
I’m going to tell you precisely why I love Neil Gaiman’s work, and I’ll do it by breaking down one of my favorite short stories: THE PRICE.
The reason we feel the need to hold baby creations up to some 30-year pro’s for comparison is because our culture teaches us to judge all art according to salability – but salability is not the point of art.
So I wrote today for the first time since my dad died. It was not, shall we say, a *good* experience.
That power. Lips could lie but power could not.
I was in a van with Robin Goodfellow
and some Shadow’s Breath rando, and I had no idea where we were headed.
We carried stories from town to town, transmitting parables like pathogens, connecting people via the thin threads of empathy and imagination who would otherwise never meet.
