There is magic, still

As of this moment, I am laying sprawled on the carpet of my expansive, sparsely furnitured livingroom, staring blankly into the ceiling after being berated by my parents and my uncle about my lack of employment and the uncertainty of my future.

As if it were something that didn't already consume my thoughts DAILY.

I've now lived completely on my own for three months. It has been a lonely life. But thankfully I have friends and ChiZine work to keep me busy, as well as an epic 2 week jaunt back to Winnipeg for probably the best holiday I have ever had, bar none. Falcon lake cabin excursions, romantic Christmas gatherings, food, friends, laughter, and family. Funny gifts, heartwarming promises, fireworks on Lake Winnipeg with ice shacks speckling the horizon. Snow wrestling. Puppies and ponies. Yes. It was good.

And yes. It came to an end. And now I'm back home. It is so quiet here. And so lonely.

There's the upcoming book, yes. And then there's the new project clunking along. And the constant stream of my ChiZine work, coupled with the knowledge that the man I love/adore/have devoted myself wholly to will be coming to see me post-block 2 Med exams. All this keeps me getting up and going.

But holy God. I've only been home what, three days? How is the melancholy and hopelessness so thick already?

Anyway.

Let's talk get away from reality. I'm tired by it. And I do not have enough chocolate in my house to satiate myself from this steady growing crankiness.

Fantasy. Lovely things. Let's talk about those.


I grew into this literary world fed on a strict diet of faery tales, mythology and a reality set outside reality. From the bright worlds of Brian Froud, David Ellwand, and Hans Christian Anderson, to the elegant shadows of Brom or Neil Gaiman. It is these worlds my imagination was raised in. It is these in which I'd very much like to stay.


Writing young adult fantasy/general fantasy. To the hundreds of authors and artists that inspire me daily, published or otherwise, I realise that to live in this world is possible, but takes time and commitment and sheer bloody willingness to delve into indelible, self manufactured worlds beyond your own. And while all that is fantastic is truly epic to experience on a day to day basis, I've learned, in recent humbling years, that reality boasts an experience that faery tales cannot compare to. Even if, in terms of my current state, reality feels crushing and impossible and just blegh, there is still so much more to it than dreaming your way out of it.

With The Lake and the Library, I hope I can somehow achieve and convey the harmony of the two. And also set the stage for whatever projects manage out of my future endeavours. Fingers crossed.

I have so many stories to tell, and in what I'm deeming a fortunately unfortunate break between jobs, which is a stressful place to be, I'm going to try and work as hard as I can on the next book The Stars of Mount Quixx. I don't think I'm going to have a huge chunk of time available to me for my leisure for a long, long time. Should probably make the most of it, if I were smart. And, at the very least, it'll keep me positive in the very tough days to come, where I'm sure you can find me calling up min wage places begging for work in order to just get by.

Can the writing be a fulfilling way to fulfill my life? I've been told by the many writers and publishers I've encountered over the last 8ish months a resounding NO. Does it stop me from dreaming, rather fantastically, that such a thing could be real. NO. With book one actually signed up, there's that irritating glimmer of hope. But that's too far down the line to even tell.

Grumble, mutter, sigh. Anyway. I'm grousing again.

For a peek into my next literary whirlwind-quest into the strange, it's going to go something like this: