From my notebook

The small room is shadowed in the early evening. There is a smell permeating the air, a thick, earthen musk; it is the smell of nature and life and growth. Sitting cross-legged on the floor before a small table is an old man, skeletally emaciated. Thin strands of white, wispy hair curl down from his pate. His eyes are clouded and seem to be starring into other worlds. His thin, cracked lips are curled into a sagacious grin, offering a hint at what character might lie within his ancient form. His hands, terminated in slender digits, work deftly with a small piece of machinery that looks akin to a clockwork heart.

He is blind, mad Ilik, craftsman of the eldritch gods which walked before and will again. He who was cursed with life-unending in exchange for services performed to the unseen kingdoms of the Ether. He who forged the blade that slew Urlik and set the stones of the crown of the Underking. Ilik, whose hands set the wheels of fate in motion at the dawn of man's sentience and whose creations will end all things.

With it being NaNoWriMo, I always like to go back through my notebooks and paper scraps to condense and clean up the little ideas I jot down from time to time. One thing I have consistently come back to is a fantasy novel/world. It germinated from stories I told myself when I was a little bugger (starting around 4 years old or so) and it's moved and evolved with me. Throughout my teenage years as a D&D player and online roleplayer I'd continue to return there time and again to gather inspiration and visit with old familiar faces.

As it stands I've roughly 60 pages or so of biographies and topographical information now, along with little pieces of flash fiction like what's above that I write when I'm struck with sudden inspiration. Perhaps I should move forward with it, but the idea of a fantasy novel seems daunting, even more so than a "real" novel. I try to remind myself of C.S. Lewis and Tolkien... and to a lesser extent, Terry Pratchett.

I need to let go of the idea that a career must be serious. If only I can embrace the fact that it's not ridiculous for a 27 year old man to want to tell faerie tales. It's part of the reason I want to write or create content for video games. There's a wide, readily accepting field there for just such a thing.