Limits, we see them posted everywhere throughout our lives. We see them physically, in signs on the road, or in places, we are not supposed to go. We grow up with our parents saying, “You can’t do this, you can’t do that,” and then there are limits that we apply to ourselves, “Oh I could never do this, I could never do that.” Some boundaries are good to have, some we need to get over in order to grow. What about your imagination, or your ability as a writer, do you know what those limits are? (Hint: you should not.)

What stories can or should you tell? I believe whatever story sits down with you when you get to the business of writing is the story you tell. It’s good to know what your limits are in terms of how much you can carry, how many people fit in an elevator, but when it comes to creativity the word ‘limit’ has no place. If a pregnant woman from another world wearing armor sits next to me, or a Korean dictator, a boy afraid of the Devil, or my father, I don’t ask questions, I write.

Don’t let the lack of knowledge on a topic deter you. When in doubt, research. We live in the information golden age. The more you learn the more you can relate to your chosen topic, or not, but you’ll likely know where you stand. If you still have something honest to say about it after you’ve done the research, then go for it. When a story has your ear and won’t let it go, you write it down, no matter what it is.

In my opinion, the most important qualification for writing anything is truth. The author has to be honest with their readers. Even if you write fantasy, horror, crime fiction, or children’s books, just be true to it. Whatever you write is going to be a part of the human story, even if there isn’t a single human in it. Stay true to the writing and the why, the reader will know when you lie.

We can’t worry about what will or won’t get published. I say that as much for my own good as anyone else’s. Writing is hard, but when it has a hold of you, it’s as necessary as breathing. Technically, I’ve written three books. The first one was to see if I could string a story long enough to call it a “book,” I did, but it is terrible. I wrote the second one out of spite and anger fueled by my political and social sense of justice. It was better than the first one, but also terrible. Unless I someday dust off those old manuscripts and try to breathe new life in them, they will be old book-bones in a chest. I didn’t know who I was as a writer yet. I also wrote an awful, didactic epic poem. One-hundred-and-fifty pages of iambic pentameter later, it too sits in a box gathering dust. My third novel is fantasy fiction and I have never been more in love with writing than I was typing away for a decade on that book. I worked my full-time job, kept strong relationships with other humans, and wrote as much as eight hours a day, every day. That story and the characters in it simply would not let me rest.

Twenty years ago, I would have laughed if someone told me I’d be writing fantasy fiction. Back then, I was going to write the next literary masterpiece though I stuttered and struggled to write consistently. Now, I write every day. I have further to go, and I am not by any means satisfied or finished trying. But I know my voice and I write with confidence because I know who I am as a writer. There’s something to be said for that.

Writing is exploration. It is a walk alone and unarmed in a wilderness that creates itself as you go. Like going on a hike, you start on a path that is worn and well known. Keep putting one word in front of the other. Eventually, you feel the pull to veer off the path and see what you can find. Explore. There are times when you might get lost, but more often, if you let it, you get found.

Story. What is there without story? What would we be if we did not indulge ourselves in the tales of others from far off places, times or even worlds? What would life be like if we never had books or film? We would be ants. Our lives would be an endless droning from one task to another without question, thought, or care for anything but the task itself. No disrespect meant to the ants of course. I have no idea what stories they might tell each other. Perhaps they huddle together in their homes after a hard day of work and talk of giants who block out the sun, or warn of others who harness it to burn them. Who knows? The point is, without the element of story life would be a bleak affair.

I think of all the stories that I have heard in my life, how many still have an effect on me. One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather telling me a story that changed how I saw the world itself. I was five years old and I would never look at a thundercloud the same from that day forward. He gave me my imagination, or at least, he lit the fire that keeps it going. I believe that we need story. Stories make us human, make us relate, depend on, and trust one another and bring us together.

A film came out in 2009 called, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, directed by Terry Gilliam, who also wrote the script with Charles McKeown. In the movie there is a scene that has stuck with me ever since. The movie is beautifully and brilliantly done. I recommend seeing it. One scene that I truly enjoy is one where Dr. Parnassus, (played by Christopher Plummer) is visited by The Devil, (Tom Waits) in a place where ancient monks deep in the earth constantly tell stories to keep the universe intact. Without them, Dr. Parnassus states, there would be no universe. I love this concept, it is so beautiful. I also believe it bears some measure of truth.

The human mind is the most amazing thing there is. I remember a few years seeing an article saying that scientists had mapped the neurons of the human brain and that it looked very similar to a picture of the known universe. You can read more and see the pictures that inspired me here: https://www.crystalinks.com/brain.universe513.html. I find it truly fascinating. I like to imagine that this proves that we are capable of amazing things, and that the possibility we hold within our minds is ever expanding and not limited just to the corporeal world we know. I think the same applies when it comes to stories. There is no limit to the human imagination.

I have friends who are expecting their second child any day now. A little galaxy is growing in my friend’s belly. Galaxies are growing in bellies all over the world. When her first child was born, I couldn’t wait to tell him stories. I am the kooky uncle who spins tall tales and yarns at a moment’s notice. I have known this little person since the very first day he was born. I remember the first time I saw him. He looked like a little wizard in a white robe with a tiny orange hat. That little guy has inspired a number of stories from me. Mostly, he has inspired me to come up with stories to write down and tell him and that is kind of magical. If I can make him laugh or wonder, or think then my job as a storyteller is fulfilled. I don’t know if I can hold up the universe with any of my tales, but maybe I can entertain a galaxy or two.

Every day, for ten years, I would get out of bed, turn on the laptop, start the coffee, and sit down to write. I did not need an alarm. My characters woke me. It was as if they were all crammed into my little apartment, tapping their toes and leaning on broadswords and axes waiting for me to get up. My every spare thought was spent on my world, and the lives of the people in it.

In 2018, I finished my book, Mother Made of Iron. I’d been through all the edits and revisions, the moments of bare-faced self-doubt and crippling questions of my choices in life and survived. After writing and writhing around in the world I’d created, it was time to promote it. I had to find representation. I started researching literary agents and drafting query letters to send them.

Today it is 2019 and it has been one long year, and one short year of actively querying agents. I am still going, and why shouldn’t I be? It’s only been a year. It was a long one yes, but then, I am not a patient man. It’s been a short one because how many writers have gone so much longer? I’ve heard the stories, some authors go through hundreds of rejections – hundreds. Some have waited twenty or more years to finally be published. Why should I feel special? Of course, I do feel special; like I should have been published already, but it’s that dab of necessary narcissism that probably keeps me from giving up. Despite the denials, I have come to appreciate the journey even though my folder of query rejections continues to grow.

Years ago, I started a practice where I would go to my local bookstore in Tempe, Arizona and take a picture of where my book will go on the shelf. I do this every couple of months. Between Patrick Rothfuss, and Rena Rossner, my debut fantasy novel will one day live. I take those pictures because I have to, because this process is not easy. Every writer has to go through the gauntlet of rejection. Some get through it quicker than others and some don’t. I’m still in it. The point is to keep going. Do not listen to doubt. Do not give up. Do not stop writing.

One thing that has helped me get through this query process with my fantasy novel, is writing something other than fantasy. Despite my desire to jump right into book two of the intended series, Mother of Light, Father of Shadow, I had to stop and address things that I had to write in this world, more specifically, my world. I write fantasy because the genre saved me growing up through difficult times in my life. I don’t particularly relish going over the things that made me turn to fantasy but that’s where the writing is telling me to go, and I go where the writing takes me. Most of the time, it takes me to lands where dragons sleep under the earth, but sometimes I have to walk back from a scorched childhood to find my way home.

Writing brings me places I never knew existed and some I wish never did, but I am kept warm by the fire it creates. Like some modern day caveman, I hunch by its flame to scrawl the contents of my mind on this digital wall.

My First Blog

I have been writing for more than twenty years now. In 2008, I came to a crossroads of sorts as I was trying to write the, “great American novel,” but as I wrote, fantasy elements would appear. At the time, I thought I had to be a “serious” writer. I’d had a great teacher in college and I’d taken all the literature courses. I’d gone to the Cannon Beach writer’s retreat in Oregon. I’d won a few minor awards for poetry in my college’s publication. I was determined that my work would one day be studied in college courses and sign books with a glass of bourbon in my hand like a Poet Laureate I once met, I was serious. So, when a fantasy element or magical realism popped up in my great American story, I deleted it. I was killing my own imagination despite that reading Tolkien, Brooks, Weis and Hickman and others got me through traumatic and difficult times as a kid. I learned from those authors how to use my imagination, and here I was as a writer, avoiding it.

On December 12^th 2008, I had taken the day off work solely to write, I was working on my great “literary” debut when I felt like someone was holding me under water. This pressing need to write some great piece of literature was suffocating me. I stopped typing and made a guttural sound, as if the caveman in me had woken up and wanted to smash something. “Fuck it!” I said. “I’m going to write what I want to write.” As I spoke those words, I became free.

There I sat, at the kitchen table, my dogs looked at me as if I was losing my mind and in a way, I did. My mind opened to itself and I felt like I could see the world from where I was sitting. By the time I was done that day, I had drawn a map, written a creation story, came up with main characters and the names of gods and goddesses. I was writing, really writing. For me, “really writing,” means that I actually had something to write. I couldn’t stop it. I had discovered a new world, one that was real and had people in it, animals, land and oceans.

From that moment on, the people in this world I was creating woke me up every day. It was as if there was a tall, northern woman dressed in armor tapping me to wake up and get to the computer and start writing. Every time I walked my dogs then I could hear the little girl with the crow’s feathers marked on her arm asking me when I would get back to it. At work I couldn’t sit in my cubicle and work without a knight and his barbarian friend drinking ale and constantly poking at me to tell their stories.  

The writing took over my life and I loved it. It got me through every awful, stressful day and every wonderful one. You can call it the muse or creativity or whatever word makes you feel right, I had a story to tell and it was alive. Ever since I finished that book I’ve been chasing that very same feeling. I still need to publish it, which is an entirely different chase all its own.

I have not gone back to that world but a few times since, writing what amounts to be a few short stories and a novelette. I miss it, and I will return, but I had to embark on some other writing, the kind rooted in this world, carved in the rock of my soul. All of it is important, all of it serious. I may never be read in textbooks but everything I’ve written, be it fantasy or memoir and everything in between, is no less important than the great literary pieces of the world. Those works, the “great American novels,” and the classics, they teach us about humanity as a whole, and that’s crucial. For me, writing has taught me about myself, it is the roadmap to my soul. I would be lost without it.