Saliva started to foam at Grimiron’s mouth and splatter in different directions as his serpent like tongue lolled about. He was in increasing pain, the longer the iron spike remained on him.
Writing is thought made real. Fantasy is the dream those thoughts make. But how do the random thoughts swimming beneath the surface of my subconscious become ideas; how do they become the seeds of inspiration for worlds of mythical trials and triumph?
When a fantasy story's theme admonishes some aspect of the reader's person, the reader can more readily accept it because the voice that spoke to them is that of a frog king of the swamp, not someone they could easily know and see in the world.
“Enough,” Grim said again, this time with a grudging growl of threat. “I saw you across the river, trying to sneak towards my shore.” He growled again, mostly at himself for the oddness of claiming what he knows he never earned. “I heard you climb above my den and dig your way in. And now I see you as you make a mess of where I sleep.”
There is a circle to things.
It is myth that I dream about.
The exhilaration he’d felt alongside his brother, when the two had looked down through the roof to see Grimiron sleeping in the dark, had died. It had died a quick death, too. It had only taken a single rumbling sigh from the massive form below to set Thwoo’s slick skin crawling.
It's one thing to know what you believe writing is and what it's for. It's another to know why you want to do it, personally.
Ultimately, I think, writing is like anything else people do. It is a tool, a method through which we can better understand our world and our places in it.
She sat up in a rush, suddenly restless. Her mind raced. She wasn’t entirely sure of the reason herself, until after she’d piled her two other dresses, her woodsman pants, long sleeved shirt, and her old boots onto her bed and wrapped it all tightly in the rough gray fabric of her blanket. She wasn’t going to wait anymore.