A random thought on writing

Stories come unbidden at the most inopportune times. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that I have things to do, mountains to slay, and dragons to climb. And then it happens, the magic voice on the edge of sanity. You know the one, no?

Some stories are spun out by necessity and desire, but others are born of magick and fester until your brain bleeds. You dig what I’m saying, right? You’ve felt it? When the story pours out like a surreal hallucination, images scattershot on the inner canvas, flashes of triangled eyes and cat tongues and arcane writings and hand gestures and sigils and demonic scrawlings in chalk on a playground.


Those are the real stories. The ones from the other place. They’re the tales of yours that you reread and wonder where they really came from and what yarnspinner climbed inside your meat suit and took it for a wild ride through some dark wonderland down under.

Writers come in a variety of sorts, be they gardeners, architects, or psychonauts. I have an affinity for the former and the latter, but particularly the latter. I’ve never felt any kinship toward architectural story building. It seems soulless to me.

A story has to grow organically. It’s a mystery to unravel, as much for me as for the reader. And if that mystery is a magical mystery tour, then all the better.


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