Gallade's Story Archive

                  It has always been forbidden in circles of Wizards and Sorcerers to tell another person the date of their death.           It is discouraged, but not forbidden, to seek the answer yourself, by calling a meeting with the being substantial.           Death rose from the pile of crumpled bones that had been assembled, standing quite tall over the Wizard, having to bow his head to not knock against the low ceiling, keeping his scythe by his side.           Raising one boney hand, Death pointed to the young robed spellcaster and spoke in a voice that tore between starlight and muted the crackles of flames.           “Teregrin Oakshire, for WHAT reason have you summoned me here?”     ...

     Writing is a bizarre and unexpectedly complicated phenomenon. It is easy to begin, only slightly more elaborate than drawing a square. But writing something good is a process of such difficulty that those known to write well consistently are revered, such as Sage Cotugno, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, George R.R. Martin, and many many more. And yet again, it is just putting words on paper. So, in both camps, visualizing what writing actually is, is complicated. Similarly, but paradoxically, a book is often able to be seen as a work of art, but a writer is much harder to see as an artist. The connotations of the words feel distinct, and the act of writing, at least to me, does not seem complicated when you aren’t sitting down to do it. “Ah, I could certainly write six pages a day, just like Stephen King!” Until you sit down to do so, you write a sentence, you hate the sentence, and you wonder if you had any talent at all, like George R.R. Martin once said. I co...