It Didn’t Matter Where You

The Danger Would Be Going Back, Or Staying Still. The Only Way Out Was Through. The Past Was Ruins, But The Present Was Still In Play.

I Used To Write In A Local Coffee Shop, But There Was Another Guy, Another Writer, Who Kept Sitting In My Favorite Seat. I Would Show Up, And He Would Be There, And I Would Get Exiled To A Couch Or Something, And It Would Throw Me Off My Game.

Oddly, The Meanings Of Books Are Defined For Me Much More By Their Beginnings And Middles Than They Are By Their Endings.

The Line Between Outside And Inside Is Fuzzier In Fantasy. Maybe That's Something People Are Looking For.

I Feel That's One Of The Central Questions Of Fantasy. What Did We Lose When We Entered The 20th And 21st Century, And How Can We Mourn What We Lost, And What Can We Replace It With? We're Still Asking Those Questions In An Urgent Way.