Writing is hard. Writing is like reining in all the elephants in your mind and stuffing them into a very tiny box that wouldn’t even fit a mouse.
I’ve got some things planned to be posted on the blog. An analysis of TowerFall, some brain-vomit on the nature of classic literature, and I’m sure there’s still an FTL review from months ago still lying in the drafts. But writing is only getting harder. Too many elephants, not enough tricks to make them fit in the box. Maybe I should read some more, I don’t know. Everything’s getting harder to describe.
Here, err, a piece of something I may or may not be working on. I’ve been writing all this time and nobody I know has ever read any of them. Except for that one time for school, but that barely counts. We all need to be given attention, something to make us feel that all this is worthwhile.
The Magician’s apprentice was up on the ivory tower when the world abruptly came to an end, mixing some elixirs he hoped would be more explosive than his other bungled experiments now lying in glass shards and disappointingly unvolatile puddles on the floor. A tower made out of ivory is surprisingly tough, and with absolutely no skill in making anything else and the only window being only a tiny crack in the wall, barely larger than his head, there was no way out but with a big kaboom.
(One can point out that it will have just the effect he desired, making a hole in a wall, but will not solve the problem of how he would get down, as the room he was trapped in was a very far way up, but he was probably not in a good enough state of mind to listen, after all this business with the Magician lying to him the entire time and a cosmic battle in action.)