After A Certain Point Is

There Were Two Sets Of Double Doors Leading Out Of The Antechamber, One Marked Stacks And The Other Tomes. Not Knowing The Difference Between The Two, I Headed To The Ones Labeled Stacks. That Was What I Wanted. Stacks Of Books. Great Heaps Of Books. Shelf After Endless Shelf Of Books.

Dawn Was Coming. The Waystone Inn Lay In Silence, And It Was A Silence Of Three Parts.

I've Got A Solid Grounding In History, Sociology, Anthropology, Philosophy, Etc Etc. That Means I Actually Have A Good Idea About How Societies Change And Evolve. I Know How A Lot Of Them Have Actually Functioned Through The Years. I Can Put Together A Culture That's Cool And Different, While Still Being Logically Consistent, So That It Feels Real. So Many Fantasy Worlds Are Either Implausible, Cookie-cutter, Or Both. Mine Aren't.

The Myth Stems From The Belief That Writing Is Some Mystical Process. That It's Magical. That It Abides By Its Own Set Of Rules Different From All Other Forms Of Work, Art, Or Play.but That's Bullshit. Plumbers Don't Get Plumber's Block. Teachers Don't Get Teacher's Block. Soccer Players Don't Get Soccer Block. What Makes Writing Different? Nothing. The Only Difference Is That Writers Feel They Have A Free Pass To Give Up When Writing Is Hard.

Words Have To Find A Man's Mind Before They Can Touch His Heart, And Some Men's Minds Are Woefully Small Targets.