Microfiction: Magic For A New Era

With a slight chortle on her lips, she read the words. Then looked back up.

“That’s not a word; that’s not English.”

The deity lowered the glasses he wore for fashion only and cocked up an eyebrow. “Oh, do you think you know the reality of the situation? I was there when language was formed—I saw the very concept spring forth.”

“Still not English,” she said, crossing her arms. She took a sip from her tenth cup of coffee. Continue reading

Sprinting To Amazement

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I write fast as it is. That’s a brag—I think I earned it. I’ve written more than a million words and I’m still in my twenties. That’s probably worth some credit.

But even I was not prepared for how effective writing sprints are for me.

Like, these things are absurd. Continue reading

Are You Actually Going To Write A Book Or Just Talk About It?

When you’re a writer, and you tell people that you are, you end up getting a lot of people asking questions about it.

And when you tell them that you’ve written, like, 20 novels/novellas, you get the obvious question:

How did you do it?

Well, here’s how I did it, in book form:

Continue reading

Practice Is Not A Loss

I’ve done many things that didn’t seem to be relevant at the time, or later felt obsolete in the face of new circumstances. But, in a positive spin of an article, I have something simple to say regarding this.

The actions we do towards a goal are not a loss. There is no way to know what skills we develop and acquire will allow us to make something grand in the future. Continue reading

I’m Scared To Write A New Book

Let’s talk about my writing history here. I don’t mean it as a brag, not much anyway. It’s just context, and it’s interesting context.

I spent about 2 years writing like a madman. A book a month or so. Massive, massive amounts of content. I kept it going even through some pretty intense exhaustion, and I don’t regret that.

But there came a day when I was working on a book and I wasn’t exactly blocked, I was just…off. I felt tired of it, unwilling, though not unable, to write another book. The stories I already created, that only I had seen, felt like they were staring at me with menace. Like they were angry with me for letting them rot and gather dust. Continue reading