For an author like me just beginning his career, there are few things more horrifying than the prospect of my fiction being displayed for all the world to see. The Blue Dragon’s War is the longest thing I’ve ever written which has the potential for large-scale publishing, and the idea evokes the strangest mix of terror and excitement I’ve ever experienced.
Since the idea of somebody else seeing my work makes me so nervous, it might seem odd that I’ve chosen to be a writer. Public speaking makes me nauseous and I have no illusions that writing will make me rich or famous. So why would I want to subject myself to these sorts of apprehensions?
My earliest experience with fantasy literature was probably when my father gave me The Hobbit when I was eleven or twelve. I devoured it. While I had encountered fantasy in other contexts ( R.L. Stine was popular when I was young, though I much preferred John Belairs), The Hobbit was my first experience with fantasy as serious literature. I don’t suppose this is a great surprise to anyone; saying Tolkien was your introduction to fantasy is like saying Hamletis your favorite Shakespearean play, or The Beatles are your favorite band. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that; it’s just that these things are so universally popular that as a response they lack originality.
Tolkien has been so important to the entire genre that everything which followed was either in imitation or a reaction to his world. It’s more acceptable, more appropriate, though, to have a Tolkien as your intro to fantasy than it would be to have a similarly bland taste in music or playwrights.
Fantasy is the literary equivalent of comfort food. At the very least, there are elements of it which naturally tend in that direction. The fairy tales and fables we read as children are fantastical, with ogres and trolls, gnomes and witches. Even the stories we read as we grow up retain elements of the fantastic. These stories are about all the things we wish we could do, and challenges we wish we were brave enough to accept and smart enough to overcome. These are stories of kid detectives foiling career criminals or teenage daredevils running away from home and living in a boxcar, or animals that can talk and think and look out for each other. It’s only when we become adults that we learn these things are impossible. We learn of real life’s inevitabilities, which leads us to reject the fantastic in favor of the mundane. Here’s the thing though: being an adult sucks. There’s no getting around it. There are some particular pleasures that come with age, and I do my best to take advantage of them. But there’s nothing quite like the quiet pleasure a child takes in acting out their private imaginings or sharing them with friends.
This is why I write, even though there is no good, sensible, practical reason to do so. I like my fantasies and I enjoy sharing them with others. Writing these stories, set in what has become the world of Chronicles of Calibran, is an added enticement. Not only can I share the fruits of my imagination, but in the process I can help others share their own fantastical adventures. Working as part of a team has helped quite a bit with the nervousness. My teammates are talented, they’ve reviewed my work, and they’ve given it a thumbs up. This gives me a little bit of confidence. But ultimately, I swallow the nervousness and write because I just can’t help myself.
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