Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, dear readers

I can say with certainty that 2019 has been a difficult year for me personally, as well as for Alex Stargazer Books. Since I decided to self-publish Fallen Love on that fateful mid-summer day, I have been kept continuously busy—I’ve been working with my designer to create the covers for both Fallen Love and the Vampire Eirik; with my consultant, I’ve been mastering MailChimp and my mailing list; and I’ve been writing too.

I published the Vampire Eirik in December, and Fallen Love is coming January 7th (I was forced to delay for various annoying reasons). Moreover, starting with the first day of the year, tomorrow, I will have my work cut out for me promoting the book.

So to all my readers: I wish you a peaceful 2020. May you live in comfort and peace.

Review: the Queen of Air and Darkness

The Queen of Air and Darkness is a great book that just goes on for too long. Cassandra Clare’s third book in the series is over 200,000 words—and a fourth book, a short story, is coming. Can the plot really support going over half a million words?

The Queen of Air and Darkness is undeniably a stunning work of fiction: the vast array of characters, relationships, conflict and magic is enough to keep this poor reader awake till the dark hours of the night. To cover all this ground in a review feels onerous; I can only summarise the key points, and reflect on my personal impressions. I assume the reader has already read the previous two books in the series, as well as the Mortal Instruments books. You are going to have a tough time reading this book otherwise.

Characterisation takes up most of the immense word count; this is partly a good thing, and partly a bad thing. Emma and Julian are great characters, of course, and we’ve come to know them well—the devoted and protective Julian, so beautiful yet so tortured; and fierce Emma, trusty Cortana at her side. There are many, many other characters in this book, however. Some, such as Jace and Clary—or my favourites, Alec and Magnus—are well-loved favourites from the Mortal Instruments. In fact, let me be honest: Alec and Magnus broke my heart, in all the best ways.

The remaining character cast is not as important to the narrative, but still take up too much “screentime”, so to speak. The number of pages dedicated to Drusilla and Jaime/Diego; to Rayan and Divya; Kit and Ty; and yes, even to the Mark–Kieran–Cristina nexus, is out of proportion. It slows down the plot, and weakens the story. Emma and Julian are the real protagonists in this tale.

Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed Mark, Kieran and Cristina’s relationship immensely. It’s rare to get a bisexual love triangle in a fantasy book! Even so, I feel Cassy drew out their subplot way too much. Every romance story needs to have a reason for why two (or three) people can’t be together—and the biggest problem with any romance story is when those reasons become contrived. These three were like a seesaw: always up, always down. At some point you have to wonder: “Why don’t they just get together already?”

The plot is certainly interesting: Cassie has woven twists and turns between the angst-driven relationships, and her skill as a plot writer is, by this point, undeniable. The problem, really, is that there’s just too much—the story loses focus and starts to confuse the reader. The real antagonist is not Annabelle Blackthorn, as the title alludes to; it’s actually Horace Dearborn and his Cohort. Nor was it Annabelle in the first book (Malcolm Fade gets that honour).

I’ll try not to spoil this too much, but in part two of the book, Emma and Julian head to an alternate dimension known as Thule. I think this was probably a mistake for the story. This section seems separate from the rest of the book—aside from a few plot points, the entirety of this section could have been removed without affecting the main story too much. There’s some good characterisation, but the re-introduction (and subsequent death) of Sebastian Morgenstern is just anti-climatic.

The subplot between Kit, Ty and Drusilla is underdeveloped, because it does too little to affect the resolution of the story. Cassy could have given this rather important subplot much greater significance, with a bit of imagination: Livvy could have done something important in the final battle.

I would also like to comment on a few things that personally drew my eye. Cassy understands politics incredibly well—I almost wonder if she majored in political science or history at college. She’s certainly read the history books: the Cohort’s rise to power mirrors the Nazis, from the false flag attacks; the political theatre; and the Hitlerjugend. I also enjoyed the political realism displayed by the Seelie and Unseelie rulers; I think Machiavelli and Bismarck would approve.

Despite my criticisms of this book—really, it needed a better developmental edit—I still enjoyed the book tremendously. Emma and Julian are a great love story; Alec and Magnus are wonderful; likewise the Blackthorn family, which is one of the best examples of family I’ve read. The plot twists and turns, sometimes in horrible, unpredictable directions.

I will be reading the next book—a short story anthology named “Ghosts of the Shadow Market”—which will, at least, be shorter.

Rating: 4/5

Under the Stars

Hail readers!

It has been a long time since I’ve written here on the Magical Realm, for which I can only express my regret. Alas, life has a tendency to catch up on you. Moreover, I’ve had a number of things to keep me occupied and otherwise indisposed.

The first of these was university, especially my second (and last, thankfully) Spanish class, which was a mess of grammar. Then the summer holidays came; school finished, but I spent a long time on the road to Romania, fell sick to an abscess in the gums, and spent much time occupied with these foibles. Then there were tuition fees to be paid, not to mention a microeconomics paper to complete.

After all that, I followed my grandparents to the countryside, where, for a time, I had no Internet. Blogging was therefore out of the question, but I still managed to work on both Fallen Love and its sequel.

Speaking of the books, I will get onto that in a moment. Firstly: I wish to discuss my latest poem, entitled Under the Stars (for which this post is eponymous).

A New Poem

Under the Stars is slightly meta-poetic, in that it refers to a poet, but its main message concerns immortality—the immortality of being remembered, of being important to the universe in a way above and beyond the normally insignificant lives led by humans. (Hence the metaphorical allusion to the stars.)

The poem is also a warning, of sorts: those who never seek to explore the world, to understand some of its mysteries, are no better than lesser animals—the poem compares them to chickens.

I should make a few things clear about this poem is not, however. The poem does not deal with any kind of physical immortality (debatable based on the definition of physical immortality and the laws of entropy). Nor does it comment on non-physical immortality (another can of worms entirely).

With that said, read on!

Under the stars Where the Heavens shine bright
In the dark shadow of the blue night
A poet dreams
The things unknown to man.

The moon dares not show herself
For her time is not yet;
The night belongs to the darkness
To the pale blue, the faint yellow
The unseen magenta hues.

It is said
That to admire those precious points of light
For too long
Leaves mortals mad.
The vast unknown is too great to ponder.

But the poet, nay;
He is no mere mortal, is he not?
For what is immortality
But remembered epics
That live forevermore in the minds of men?

On this dark night
In this bright sky
When others sleep soundly in their beds
(Fools, so little they know!)
The poet is allowed to wonder.

What lies in yonder universe?
A man feels small
Among such wise giants.
For the stars look on,
And know humanity too very well.

Does humanity deserve
Such greatness?
The poet thinks, and wonders;
It does not surprise him, in truth.
Man no more deserves it than the chickens.

Poets, philosophers, and kings;
Men of science and learning;
Curiosity lives in them
Bright as the stars
Darker than space.

Yet they are so few:
Diamonds among a mass
Of dull coal, like stars in the great expanse
Of emptiness.
For many are incurious, and stupid.

Mortality is a curse;
Death and suffering are its arbiters
As surely the knife is to the chickens.
Blood flows, men die, turn to dust.
Nought comes of it.

The poet is right, aye.
Those who gaze at the stars
May one day hope to join them;
Those who think of meat and the earth
Are doomed to join the objects of their desire.

Such is the way of the world
Is it not?
The moon waxes and wanes
Day gives way to night, and night to dawn.
Only the stars can taste eternity.

The Struggle for Fallen Love

I come, at last, to my long and difficult journey in getting the book published. Primarily, the problem has been a lack of time and energy on my part; the simple fact of the publishing industry at present (and for the last ten years or so) is that it requires immense perseverance. It is, in some ways, a numbers game: the probability of getting represented by one agent is very low, so it requires a lot of queries—this is an inevitable outcome dictated by statistics. I’m willing to bet that the number of queried agents required to obtain representation is approximately normally distributed around a mean, but left skewed (i.e. all authors need to query 10+ agents, but some end up querying 100).

Another problem is of course simple faith—in the book, in myself as a writer. The publishing process is by its nature demoralising. So what am I to do? Soldier on, carry my cross? It would seem so.

I shall leave you now, dear readers, for I am to return to Amsterdam and still have much to do. Rest assured, however, that I will return to blogging. I aim to write another article on photography and my experiences with my first DSLR. Until then...

Easter Musings

Hail readers!

Alex shall today use his Easter break to discuss another intriguing aspect of writing: first-person versus third-person narration. This is a topic that is quite bog-standard in creative writing circles, but one which Alex has not really thought about too much—until now. The reason, of course, is Fallen Love; it employs first-person present-tense narration, and this inevitably poses some challenges when compared to the Necromancer, which is third-person past tense.

So without further ado, allow me to present my thoughts on the advantages—and challenges—of the different narration styles. Hopefully you will find the discussion interesting (and well suited to a quiet Easter break, unlike my usual fiery polemics).

First or Third Person Narration? (Read: Intimacy or Flexibility?)

What, then, is the difference between these two common narration styles? The obvious answer is that first-person narration reveals the events through the eyes of the character (using “I”) whereas third person narration makes of a detached narrator (using “he”, “she” etc.) Nonetheless, there are some additional variations to consider: the third person style, for example, can be limited or omniscient. The first person style can be reliable or unreliable, and also has various degrees of closeness to the character.

To address the confusion, here is a list expounding the differences:

• First person. In general, this is used for intimacy, especially when the story revolves around one important main character.
• Unreliable: this is when the character’s account of the story is not always reliable—the character may lie, or fail to mention important things, and so on. This style is useful for certain narrative purposes.
• Reliable: this should be obvious enough. Still, although the character doesn’t lie, their account of the story is limited by their own perception. This style isn’t equivalent to third-person-omniscient, by any means.
• Third person. This is useful for telling the story through the eyes of multiple characters, and tends to de-emphasise the importance of one character in the grander narrative.
• Limited: this is when the narrator doesn’t know the future or have perfect knowledge of the past. You can imagine the narrator as being someone close to the characters—knowledgeable, but human.
• Omniscient/God narrator: this is when the narrator has a bird’s eye view of the events in both time and space.

So when and why do we use these different styles? There is actually no single answer; there are various recommendations, and some writers and editors swear by them, but as far as I’m concerned choosing between the styles is very much down to artistic choice.

You may have noticed that, earlier on in this post, I used the third person; right now I am using the first. This reflects a change in what my writing is doing. In the first instance, third person narration acted as a form of self-deprecation, and gave the reader a humorous introduction both to the topic and to me as a personality. In the second instance, the first person style serves to give me my own distinct voice, and thus carry a sense of authority.

Writing fiction works in a similar way. First person narration usually works to give the reader a sense of intimacy and connection with the main character—and a lot of readers enjoy this. Third person narration can be very impersonal, and usually works well to carry across a complex multidimensional plot. The dehumanising effect is another element of it: Game of Thrones is a good example of this.

But note the words usually and can. The reality—as with many things in writing—is that these different narration styles can blur together, or even act contrary to standard doctrine. Some first person narration is very intimate indeed, whereas other first-person narration is more detached; this depends on the main character’s personality. Third person narration can be intimate: it can tell the reader a character’s darkest secrets and brightest hopes. Some authors have a very warm, intimate, or humorous third-person voice.

Mark Lawrence, an author I regularly read and admire, has written a lot of dark fantasy in first-person narration. In his case, the question is not so much about making the reader like the main character (in the traditionally understood sense); rather, it’s about getting the reader to understand just how dark and depraved the main character can be (but making them love the character just the same).

Trudi Canavan, another author I admire, writes very compellingly in third person. Her romances make me swoon—at least figuratively, since swooning would be terribly unlike me.

So, to conclude: generally speaking, writing in first person is about intimacy, and writing in third person is about perspective, flexibility, and emphasis on plot. But writing is complicated. There are many things that go into character development and plot; the narrative style is more of a tool, and one that can be used according to preference.

What About Fallen Love?

This leads me onto the complicated subject that is my new novel. I have written the book in first-person, but I have broken a traditional rule: the narration is not in the eyes of one character, but three, and possibly more. Namely, we read it in Conall, Mark, and Kaylin’s perspectives.

The first reason is simple—there are many important plot elements which go on behind the scenes, and which Kaylin is somewhat aware of, but not the two boys. The second reason is also obvious: I like reading romance from both sides.

Still, this choice brings some challenges. For one, readers can sometimes struggle with multiple first-person Points-of-View (although my beta readers have not complained, so perhaps the number of POV changes and how they are accomplished matters). For two, it’s quite demanding in a technical sense.

Take language. Conall, an Upperclassman and poet, tends to use more elaborate language in place of the simple. Mark, on the other hand, usually uses more direct expression. Still, neither of them are stupid—getting the balance right is tricky.

Of course one might ask why I didn’t use third-person. The answer is that I wanted to focus on character development in this book, more so than in the Necromancer. In the latter book, world-building and fast-paced plot kept the story flowing; in the former, I think the reader needs to be closer to the characters in order to really understand them.

A Brief Note About Tenses

Since this post is proving fairly lengthy, I shall keep my digressions into the role of tense relatively short. Two kinds of tenses are used in fiction writing: past and present. The former uses ‘are/is’ and the latter ‘were/was’. (Of course, there are 12 tenses in the English language, so this is a gross simplification.)

What do they do? Is there any difference between them? Frankly, I have found them to be problematic. I wrote the Necromancer mainly in the past tense, and Fallen Love was a mishmash until I settled on present. The difference seems to be one of grammatical pedantry, as opposed to a real literary technique; whether the prose is written in present or past tense, it makes little difference.

Rather, I have found that the usual truisms about tense—present is for immediate action; past for complex, multi-layered narrative-building—to be, well, truisms. The myriad action scenes in the Necromancer were very fast paced, despite the use of past-tense. Conversely, I have worked on the action scenes in Fallen Love so that they flow better. Other elements of writing—punctuation, the characters’ interest and motivation, the reader’s knowledge of the plot—have far more of an impact.

Finishing Thoughts

I hope you have enjoyed my rather long and technical musings on this matter. To surmise it all in a few sentences: first person is for intimacy, third for scaled up narrative building; past is for multidimensional plot, present for immediate; and all of these are just generalisations.

So there you have it. I will be doing more blogging soon, although—aside from my work on Fallen Love and my commitments to Red Pers—I am also busy with academic work. Still, I will be visiting my parents again on Friday, and will have the week largely free.

Until then!

Conflict and Writing

Hello readers!

Alex must firstly apologise for the rather lengthy interlude in which he has not written here on the Magical Realm. You can blame it on his extensive responsibilities: university, his writing commitments in the field of journalism (firstly with Scriptus and now with Red Pers) and of course his work on Fallen Love.

Speaking of which, the topic of today will in no small part be related to Fallen Love. What am I talking about, you ask? I am of course talking about conflict. I intend to answer what conflict in literature is, and why it’s important.

So: onto business.

Defining Conflict

In principle, the definition of conflict ought to be a simple one: it’s when a character’s aims are being frustrated, and they have to engage in a series of actions in order to resolve this. A romantic conflict may involve resolving relationship difficulties; a paranormal conflict may involve coming to terms with supernatural powers; a historical book would likely involve political conflict; a thriller can be about beating the bad guys.

Nevertheless, conflict in a book is not always so straightforward. For one, it varies by genre—as you can already see, some genres tend to employ different kinds of conflict from others. For two, a distinction can be made between internal conflict (such as doubts about a romantic partner) and external conflict, which usually involves more obvious things like ‘catching the serial killer’.

Where it gets especially complicated is when the multiple types of conflict mix and interact. A character may struggle with inner conflict about identity, romantic passion, or his past; while, at the same time, struggling against an external force. Genre crossing is especially prone to this: a book that combines fantasy, mystery and romance will often feature three distinct conflicts, one internal, two external. The former would be sexual feelings; the latter would be uncovering a mystery and fighting off supernatural beings.

Now that we’ve established the ground rules of what conflict is, let us turn our attention to what conflict does.

Conflict in Fiction

Conflict makes stories. To put it simply: without conflict, there would be no plot, and no reason to write (or read!) a book.

This is the reason why I (and many others) dislike the genre sometimes named ‘literary fiction’. Any work of fiction requires an aim: something to which the characters aspire to, something that makes the reader bite their fingernails and anticipate the next page. Aimless literature is pointless literature. I’m not interested in hearing excuses about ‘oh but my characters are so developed’ or ‘but the world is such an interesting exposition into X’ or—my personal favourite—‘but I’m making social commentary!’

No. Developing characters requires putting them through conflict, and convincing conflict at that; it’s what tests their mettle and shows the reader what kind of person they are. World building is just expositional word vomit without plot. And as for social commentary? Please, write an essay.

Anyway, I am digressing. My point is that conflict is the essential part of a story—it makes plot, it develops characters, it breathes life into unfamiliar worlds.

Conflict in Fallen Love

So far I have written a general account of what conflict is and what purpose it serves. But now, I wish to address the question that is most pertinent to me: conflict specifically in Fallen Love.

You may have inferred that I am of the opinion that conflicts needs to be powerful; it needs to reach into the reader’s heart, and speak to their soul. To that end, Fallen Love has several avenues of conflict. There’s the romance—a Fallen and an Upperclassman, an unlikely and forbidden union. There’s the Party: a malevolent power, its eyes seeing all and its arm as long as the country is wide. And finally, there’s the supernatural powers; the darkness within Casey, the force that animatest the mutants, and the source of Kaylin’s magic.

The trouble is, you see, having multiple avenues of plot also involves multiple avenues of difficulty. Romance is especially tricky: it’s meant to be gentle, and passionate, but also fraught and problematic. The Party is meant to be evil, but rational. And as for the supernatural, well—they have their own agenda.

Striking a balance is no easy task. The book needs to be edgy and dark; but it must also have love and devotion. The light, and the dark.

Anyway, leave yours truly to battle his demons. The Magical Realm will see some more politics next...

Until then!

Writing a book at 14

Hello everyone!

Since I am terribly busy with my Dutch lessons, various administrative tasks, and of course my writing, I have decided not to write any original work at present. However, the piece below was originally published in the university journal, Scriptus; and I believe you will find it to your great interest...

When I tell people I wrote a book at 14, it would be an understatement to say that I get a lot of responses. But beyond the look on people’s faces, writing the Necromancer changed my life in many deeper (though sometimes subtle) ways.

Firstly, allow me to address the obvious factor here: commitment. Writing a 108,000 word high-fantasy book is not something you do on a whim. Indeed, it took me over six months to complete the first draft—a feat that required writing multiple hours per week—and a whole 18 months to get feedback, edit, seek agents, do more edits, and eventually hire professionals to do the artwork.

This leads me onto the second obvious question: motivation. Why, exactly, does a fourteen-year-old undertake such a quest? In my experience, laymen often draw on analogies with entrepreneurs: perhaps, they think, I wrote because I want to build something. Maybe I want to make the world a better place. Maybe I’m just in it for the money, or the pleasure of throwing down a 500 page book and saying ‘I wrote that.’

But this is only a small part of the reason I write. To understand my motivation, you need look a bit deeper, and trace the origin to my love of reading. I have always loved reading, even from an early age, and this was particularly true of the years just before I began writing. A transcript from the school library showed that I read about 400 books between the ages of 11 and 14.

The old adage is true: behind every writer there is a profligate reader.

So how did my love of reading affect me? It is safe to say that I became enraptured by the world of fantasy. Like the children in Narnia, I had opened the wardrobe and found a whole world waiting for me. Eragon and Northern Lights kept me up at night. I saw myself in their shoes: I fought urgals on the back of a dragon; I met angels; I fought dark magicians and consorted with vampires.

I was, in truth, smitten by the occult. My fascination was endless. It seems almost inevitable that I came to write about it; that my ideas grew, morphed, and took a life of their own.

One grey October afternoon, I began writing. I believe the necromancer compelled me to write that day; that the curve of his arrogant jaw, the icy power held in his ‘cold orbs of sight,’ all but forced me to put him down on paper.

Laymen often ask writers where their inspiration comes from. This, I am afraid, is the best answer I can give you.

The first few chapters I wrote were not worth the paper they would have been printed on, however, so I had to rewrite them from scratch. This is true of nearly all first time writers—you can blame it on the fact that writing fiction is… hard. It is difficult for a non-writers to understand just what kind of challenges writing presents: the elaborate art of writing itself; the magnificent difficulty of capturing whole personalities, often in few words; the intricacies of plot—all to name a few.

The rest of the book was a journey. I followed Linaera—apprentice mage and unwitting protagonist—through her journey into the Northern Mountains. I watched on as Nateldorth, Great Mage, uncovered dark conspiracies in the capital, Dresh. Most of all I followed the necromancer. I was witness to him: to his betrayal, his descent into madness, and his ultimate redemption.

Books are journeys. The journey of my book was in a way my journey: where my characters struggled, I struggled with them. For them it was question of facing up to existential challenges. For me it was knowing their motivation, and building all the twists and turns of plot that made up their lives.

Writing the Necromancer was often a pleasure. I liked the dark, unexpected turns of the plot; the characters’ inner lives; and most of all, I enjoyed writing in the world of Arachadia. I loved the towering mountains, the vast, sprawling forests; the great stonework of the mage buildings and the fine craftsmanship of the wooden cathedrals; the world of dormant dragons and powerful magics.

Of course, writing the Necromancer was often a challenge. I was young, and devoid of experience. I often struggled to write fluently—it took much work to correct the early mistakes. It was as if a vast realm had been entrusted to a young king; a king with many ideas but few ways to actually conquer.

But conquer it I did. Perhaps I did not quite succeed. Perhaps there are other worlds yet unconquered—other vast and distant places full of promise. But writing the Necromancer was not the finishing line; it was only the first milestone of a long journey. I do not know what dragons still slumber in the path I am taking.

Nor does it matter. My advice to my younger self—as well as to other would-be writers—is perseverance. Many monsters lie in wait (some of them are called publishers, critics, and yourself) but the treasures they guard are beautiful.

On Editing

As part of my October series, I am reposting posts from the archives of the Magical Realm. This particular post was published in August, and is out of date with regards to my current activities; however, the information it presents is still important, and many of you have found it interesting.

My Experience with my Editor

If you haven’t been following this blog for long, here’s the situation: a couple of weeks ago I hired an editor through the Reedsy platform. (Incidentally, I am getting quite enamoured with it: I have already benefitted from free advice on the cover design of the Necromancer, and have gotten the interest of a company called Publishizer through them.)

My editor firstly began work with me on the query letter. I already wrote on the process a while ago. Suffice to say that I found her very helpful in getting the query right.

But of course, the main reason I hired her was to help me with the Ark. I can confirm that she has both given me a substantial (20-page) assessment, along with inline comments in the document proper. Both have been useful; the former especially. She has, in particular, suggested three things:

1. That Casey’s personality, and especially his voice, is not sufficiently distinct from Conall’s;
2. She has suggested I give more backstory to Kaylin, and clarify her motives more;
3. She has suggested I ease up on the language and poetic elements.

She has also given me feedback on other minutiae: she has suggested I change names, work on pacing and timing, and put more focus on explaining the 22nd century in discussions (rather than talking about the last century!)

Of course I do not agree with all of her feedback. She has for example suggested that I make the world more futuristic; I deemed this unrealistic and beyond the remit of the story.

But on the whole, her feedback has been very useful. She has identified flaws I subconsciously suspected but needed expert advice on—as well as finding flaws and areas of improvement that I did not envisage. For that, she was worth the $600 plus 10% Reedsy fee. Or at least it was for me; your milage may of course vary.

One thing to note is that an editorial assessment is NOT beta-reader feedback—and nor is it a replacement. Beta-reader feedback is more personal, more subjective, and treats the novel as a holistic whole. A good beta-reader will tell you what they like—perhaps in the general direction of the plot and their opinion of the main characters.

An editorial assessment isn’t about that. An editor, like mine, will say very little in the way of her personal feelings on the book (except in some instances where it is directly relevant: she highlighted chapter seven as an example). Instead, an editor will focus on specific, practical, and skills-dependent elements. She will tell you whether a character lacks backstory, whether there is too much exposition, and so on; and she will go all the way down to the lower levels of a story’s structure, treating the issue of grammar and syntax (even individual paragraphs and sentences) along with specific recommendations on removing scenes, changing points of view, and all the varied minutiae that make up a book.

From here on in, I will discuss some of her specific advice, and the specific revisions I will be making as a consequence. But first: a question you may have.

Why Reedsy?

I could have looked for (and indeed already found) editors without the help of Reedsy. By hiring them directly I would have removed 10% off the cost—which can be especially significant for larger projects.

So why didn’t I? Well, the simple answer is that Reedsy is an excellent resource. It makes everything that much more convenient; it provides a substantial list of editors from which to choose, and let’s you search by the genre that the editors specialise in (which is important in my case). This saves me a fair bit of time and allows me to find competitive offers.

It is also very useful for making contacts. One way in which they do this is through their recently begun live videos. They take an expert—last week it was cover designer, this week an editor—and have them discuss a particular topic. Last week I received feedback on the cover for the Necromancer, as well as being privy to what other book covers did right and wrong among the cohort. This week I listened to an interesting talk about the ins and outs of worldbuilding.

Reedsy has also put me in contact with Publishizer—a company that specialises in crowdfunding books. I will say no more on this (it’s a secret) but what I will say is that I am very curious to see what happens.

The Workings of the Ark

I have compiled an extensive revision plan on the basis of my editors’ feedback. Below is an abridged version.

1. I have decided to significantly alter Casey’s narrative voice and dialogue—particularly in the earlier scenes. I have already edited and/or rewritten a number so far. The basic idea of my edits is this: his expressions and thoughts are a little too complex and too poetic for him. I am rewriting him with a focus on being more direct, less verbose, and tending towards language is that is less flowery. I believe this will contrast sharply with Conall’s voice (which if anything I making a little more poetic) and make the characters more distinct.
2. I am writing additional backstory for Kaylin.
3. I have introduced an extra plot device; this I will use to heighten the conflict of the two protagonists, introduce additional tension in the book as a whole, and I will specifically apply to some of the weaker chapters. (Naturally, I’m not telling you what this plot device is; you’ll have to see for yourself!)
4. I am changing some names, because too many of them start with C; they have become confusing to the reader.
5. I am changing some of the discussion.
6. And various other minor changes.

So, that’s the gist of my revision so far. I will be implementing these changes over the course of my stay here, particularly when I will be away in the countryside and will have no Internet. Let me tell you: it is not an insignificant amount of work.

The Art of Editing

Finally, I shall discuss some of the more abstract principles of editing at the end of this post.

The following is not a comprehensive insight into all that goes on in editing, but it does cover some of what has struck me most strongly while working on the Ark—and before that, the Necromancer.

If there is one maxim that applies more truly than any other, it’s that writing is in the re-writing. Rewriting is where you discover hidden potential in your prose; like a diamond covered by dust, your job when editing is to brush away the dust, find what is beautiful, and get rid of what is less than shiny.

The catch, of course, is that there must be potential locked underneath the original prose. If there isn’t, re-writing potentially allows you to start from scratch. But the key caveat is that it might allow you; often, however, if the original prose has no redeeming features, then it isn’t worth the effort to re-write it. Just get rid of it. (Indeed, for some writers, this may mean getting rid of an entire book. That’s one of the downsides of writing, and art in general.)

Then there’s the difference between re-writing vs editing. The former is ultimately a destructive process; you can certainly re-write prose to bring out its potential—to bring it closer to your creative vision—but the prose is of a different character afterwards. Editing, if done right, preserves the overall character of the prose. But editing is also limited in scope.

Editing can be about changing a particular word choice, or to replace a misused semicolon, but sometimes a full re-write is necessary. Being able to tell when a piece of prose requires rethinking some words, or a full re-write, is a skill I am still learning to master. I suspect it will improve with experience.

The last maxim I shall leave you with (for today, at least) is that a character’s voice is dependent not only on what he says, but also how he says it. One may say ‘he saw the boy, attired in the manner of a king, and was filled with a terrible yearning; what wealth, he thought—and what artistry! He could never hope to emulate him. He was too anodyne for that, too uncultured.’ Or you can say: ‘Damn, that boy knew how to dress. I could never hope to copy him; he was like a goddamn king. Next to him, I looked homeless.’

These two pieces of prose say much the same thing; yet the style in which they are written leads to stark differences in their character and feel. The former prose sounds like it was written by an aristocrat, or a famous 18th century writer; the latter is typical of modern teenagers. (Well, perhaps a relatively intelligent modern teenager.)

Anyway! That’s it for now. I will be publishing more posts in the near future: one will likely be about editing (once more) and the other on the current state of British politics, particularly in the Tory party. Until then, keep following. I am performing a great deal of work on the Ark—some of which you will even get to see before publication—and I will be releasing a number of photos of Romania in the not too distant future.

Nostalgia

Hello readers!

My previous post regarding my experience with my new(ish) smartphone proved ironic; the morning after the phone refused to charge. I don’t know why: there is no obvious water damage (the phone is waterproof in up to 1.5m of water), or any other clear explanation. There is also some odd screen behaviour.

Hopefully I will get these issues fixed under warranty.

This unfortunate issue aside, this post is concerned with something rather different. I have been feeling nostalgic as of late—for no other than my first novel, the Necromancer.

You could blame it on the fact that I have completed my AS retakes and, two days ago, my A2 philosophy exam. The latter went very well, I thought, and the former I think were fine also. But with four more exams to go, perhaps the lull has set my mind onto other things.

No matter. I have decided to make use of my nostalgia, and write a few musings on the worldbuilding of the Necromancer. If you’ve read it (or are simply curious) do take a look: I elaborate on a fair few things that didn’t get mentioned in the book.

Power

One of the things that struck me about the Necromancer’s magic system—and indeed magic-systems in general—is the vast differences in power between different mages doing different things.

Consider the example of a healer mage. Your typical Arachadian healer mage, working in a typical Arachadian clinic (for the wealthy) would encounter a number of minor elements in a typical working day.

Treating all these minor elements would not tire a healer mage much. They would still be quite alert at the end of work.

But consider a healer mage working in a battlefield hospital. Having to treat broken bones, severe bleeding, internal damage and other nasty injuries would be exponentially more difficult—the same mage would be exhausted after perhaps an hour or two.

And now suppose that they had to treat a patient hanging for dear life—multiple organ failure, infection by deadly disease, wounds caused by magic, etc. Treating a single such case could take as little as half an hour; but it would be the most difficult half-hour in the healer’s career, requiring intense concentration and a great deal of magical power.

Half an hour of that would be worse than two hours of treating broken bones.

Battle magic is even worse for this. The grand displays of magical fireworks that the Neshvetal, the eponymous necromancer, engages in exhaust even this (vastly superior) power within minutes. Whereas trivial spells, such as a rain shield, can be maintained for hours even by relatively weak apprentice mages.

Speaking of weakness, there are also vast differences in the individual power of mages. In the Necromancer, Neshvetal and his apprentice Leira are confronted by Linaera’s party (of which there are seven mages, counting Stella the healer and the apprentices Linaera and Sasha).

Neshvetal wipes the floor with Linaera and co. A great mage and an apprentice are simply not in the same league, even when the former is significantly outnumbered.

There are differences in skill as well. Neshvetal has had longer to perfect his skills than most people get to live. He is able to wield magic with a skill and ease that would seem instinctive, even trivial, although magic is a discipline that takes years of practice to attain proficiency.

Speaking of which...

The Life of a Mage

Linaera is an apprentice at a mage school. But the Necromancer does not actually go into a huge amount of depth into her life growing up.

The life of pretty much any mage is going to be cushy, but it is also frequently difficult and frustrating.

In the case of the former, the obvious element is wealth. Mages come from wealthy backgrounds; from parents able to afford the substantial tuition fees. Mages themselves are well-paid, whether they work in the military, in hospitals or private clinics, and even as enchanters. Skilled enchantry can fetch a handsome price, while all enchanters are given a stipend from the Arachadian state (enchantry being a valuable but oft-neglected magical discipline).

Even the rare mages that don’t come from privileged backgrounds—such as Mark—are still given free food and comfortable lodgings while studying (and of course can benefit from handsome renumeration after their studies).

Despite the privileged nature of magery, mages themselves are egalitarian among themselves. A Silver Mage—that is, a battle mage showing enough skill, experience and mental fortitude to earn the honour—earn little more than an ordinary battle mage. They value themselves in pride and skill.

Even the Great Mage is not paid like a lord. He is given the lodgings assigned to the Great Mage, which has been the same for some two hundred years. It is oppulent enough; but the Great Mage does not own it. It is passed down when he dies.

The Great Mage has maids taking care of domestic tasks, and can request just about anything magical regardless of price. But his personal salary is comparatively modest: a typical battle mage might earn forty or so gold pieces a year, while the Great Mage receives a hundred. This difference seems large, but it is much less than the comparable difference in power, and certainly less than, say, the CEO of Apple compared to a programmer working at Apple.

To put this into perspective, a farm labourer in a good year would make about ten gold pieces (though some make less).

But the life of a mage can also be frustrating. Young mages are admitted to the academies at around age twelve. To enter, they are tested for magical power (the most important test), and then are taught some magical exercises in order to prove that they can control their power (also important). On top of that they need to show good literacy, basic numeracy, and some knowledge of history and the sciences.

In the first year they learn no practical magic. Indeed much of the study has nothing to do with magic, being instead concerned with science: topics such as biology, anatomy, and physics are taught. This is interspersed with the basics of magical theory—the source of magical power, along with the various workings and limitations of basic spellcraft.

In the second year they are taught elementary magic, though only very basic things are meant to be learned. There is more magical theory, which is based on not only the magic learned in Year 1—but also on physics and biology, for these are important as well. And not for general knowledge.

A healer, obviously, needs to have in-depth knowledge of human biology. But any mage needs to understand the basic principles of physics: for ultimately, magic is subordinate to it. Young mages need to understand that their power is very much like an internal reservoir of energy: it is quite fixed, and easily used up. It takes time to refill.

Very low magical energy will leave a mage exhausted, or even put them into a coma.

Exactly why is not precisely known. Healers, however, have long believed that magic is an inherent part of a mage’s physiology.

Anyway, the point is that all this theory and no practice leaves many mages unsatisifed and bored. They hear (and see!) the amazing magic performed by the magery—as if it were child’s play—and wonder why they cannot do the same.

It is not until Year 3—when most mages are 14—that magic is properly taught. Why? A simple case of the power and danger associated with magic, and the typical maturity of a twelve year-old.

How Dangerous is Magic?

Those of you who have read of how Neshvetal raised an army of the dead, or of Nateldorth’s terrifying fireballs, would think such a question pointless. Of course magic is powerful and dangerous!

Nevertheless, there are again significant differences in what kinds of magic are dangerous. Necromancy is a particularly potent and frightening sort of magic, for it can raise powerful undead beings(revenants) in large numbers. The creation of undead also empowers the caster; this is why Neshvetal—already a very powerful mage—became nearly unstoppable.

But the magic of Nateldorth or Neshvetal isn’t really the norm. A lot of magic is harmless: illusions of butterflies, healing, rain spells and telepathy are obvious examples.

That said, battle magic is universally dangerous. Even a moderately skilled and able mage can cast fireballs. These may not burn through walls—as the Great Mage’s do—but are still easily capable of inflecting lethal burns on a human.

For this reason, magic is a highly regulated profession in Arachadia. Ever since its inception about 400 years before Linaera’s time, the High Academy of Magic, in Dresh, has had a monopoly on the teaching of magic, the accreditation of mages, and the disbarrement of mages.

Of course this monopoly isn’t perfect—any mage can find an able pupil and teach them. However, controlling the teaching of magic is very much in the interest of the Arachadian nobility. The occasional rogue mage (a very dangerous proposition) is enough to convince the magery to feel the same way.

Why Does Arachadia Have Soldiers?

Reading all this, you may be wondering why Arachadia bothers training and equipping soldiers—after all, can mages not simply obliterate them in a firestorm?

The reality, of course, is more complicated. While a battle mage can easily kill a squadron of soldiers, an army is a much more difficult proposition. Mages tire quickly. A few fireballs might end the lives of multiple soldiers, but the mage would be pretty spent after that.

And mages are few. The Centre (as it is formally known) that Linaera studies at has only about a hundred pupils. Even the Academy in Dresh has less than a thousand.

All in all, the records show that there are 7200 apprentice mages in Arachadia, and about 20,000 accredited mages. This is not nearly as much as the 150,000 soldiers enlisted in the army.

It also means that there can only be so many mages in so many places at one time. Plus, many mages are healers and enchanters rather than battle mages.

The Land of Arachadia: Some History

Some readers may also be wondering as to the history of the world Linaera inhabits. For how long have humans been in it? How old is Arachadia, as a sovereign nation?

The answer? Comparatively recently. Arachadia’s royal family dates back to around 500 years ago, although there were human settlements long before then. But not that long: a detailed examination of human habitation would find that the timeline only goes back some millenia.

The lands of Sacharia, to the south, have a somewhat longer history. There are earlier settlements there, and their sultans have seen multiple dynasties lasting the better part of a millenium.

But still: there’s no escaping the fact that humans are only a very recent addition to Arachadia’s history. Even the elves have not been around much longer. Arachadian scholars hypothesise that Arachadians may have originated from lands beyond the central plains.

Nobody knows where from. The islands of Ohn have been populated more recently than the central plains, which would suggest that Arachadians did not sail from the eastern ocean.

The north is barren and hostile; a handful of accounts from a few determined traveller-mages speak only of mountains, and then ice. An endless expanse of ice.

The west is covered in forest, and populated by shape-shifting tribes. Whether humans migrated from there in some long-ago era is entirely plausible, but no one has had much chance to dig there—the shifters don’t allow many visitors.

The southern desert is considered the best candidate. The Sacharians do speak of an expanse of water in the far-flung south of their desert, but this involves travelling for months across dry desert. Some scholars say this makes mass-migration from there impossible, but other scholars—experts in archaeology and the study of the elements—believe that the desert wasn’t as dry in those distant millenia.

There is no mystery about one thing, however. The dragons were there before us.

The Dragons

The dragons are all but extinct in Linaera’s time: there are only a handful of adults left. They live in self-enforced exile in the mountains of the far-north.

But some four hundred years ago, conflict ensued between humans and dragons. The dragons—thousands then—were proud and keen to assert their dominance over increasingly advanced human civilisation. They wanted tributes in livestock and gold, and even the attentions of the healer-mages.

The humans of Arachadia initially accepted this, but soon resented the dragons’ greed and often senseless cruelty against people.

Three hundred and fifty years ago, war began. With the formation of the Academy, humans proved successful in driving the reptiles out of Arachadia and into the north. Magic was a key reason. Dragons could kill many with their fire, flew at high speed over long distances, and had the strength of an elephant, the bite of a T-rex and the claws to go with it.

But magic proved too strong an advantage.

Nevertheless, the war was bloody and didn’t really end for about two centuries. Dragons still performed raids on Arachadia, flying from the high peaks where no Arachadian army could follow. Indeed the war was only put to an end when the dragons attempted a particularly daring raid: flying over a thousand miles, they headed for Dresh.

They then turned and headed for Duvalos—then, as now, a major city. Thinking the Arachadians would panic and throw all their resources at protecting Dresh, they thought Duvalos would be easy pickings.

What they didn’t count on was that the mages had built teleportation gates between all the major cities, so that they could be where they were most needed. They were also able to track the dragon’s presence across the land. The reptiles never stood a chance.

An Aside: Money

Some reads have wanted to know more about the money system. Below is an explanation of the currency, from highest to lowest denomination.

• Medalion. Gold medalions are issued as payment to merchants fortunate enough to sell to the Arachadian royal family. A gold medalion is worth six gold coins.
• Gold coin. Normally the highest denomination of currency, gold coins are very valuable. The Great Mage only earns about a hundred a year; even the queen manages with only 2000 or so a year. Peasants make do with ten a year. A gold coin is worth twelve silver coins.
• Silver coin These are actually much more common gold coins and many people in Arachadia are paid by the silver. That’s even an expression—paid by the silver, as in a not particularly well renumerated. A silver is worth twenty-four copper coins.
• Copper coin is the coin you will most likely see in Arachadia. They are worth a modest but non-trivial amount of money. One thing to note is that they don’t like this:

But rather like this:

• 1/3 Copper. Used for paying for small items like a loaf of bread.

As you can see, Arachadian money is all denominated by factors of 3. However, it is quite confusing. As you go up the scale, each individual coin is worth progressively less in comparison: a silver is worth 24 coppers, but a gold only 12 silvers. But this trend doesn’t hold if you include the 1/3 coppers.

Closing Thoughts

Well; this has been a long post. Looking back I realised just how many things I never addressed in the book—partly out of inexperience, but also because narrative always takes precedence over worldbuilding.

If you found this interesting, why not read the book?

With that, I must leave you. Wish me luck for my exams, as well as for the long road of work I will have revising and writing the Ark.

On Plot

Hail readers!

To continue from my previous post on the length of a story, I shall now write—relatively briefly, alas—on another troublesome matter: plot.

And why is plot so troublesome, you wonder? Well; the answer to that lies in its complexity. Some tales have relatively straightforward narratives—romance novels being one such. Other tales are more complex; thrillers, for example, depend on complex fast-moving plotlines to be effective. Being primarily concerned with fantasy and Sci-Fi writing, one might think plot would not be quite so significant as, say, worldbuilding. One would be wrong.

Plot in Fantasy & Sci-Fi

Any tale relies on plot of some form. Whether it’d be a boy and a girl and how they come to be in love; whether it be about an apprentice mage, and how she came to war with a necromancer (…); or whether, indeed, it is a mix of how two boys came to be love, and how the world around them begins to crumble. (In case you’re wondering: the Ark is what you want to be looking at for that.)

In the case of the latter two, plot has proven both crucial and difficult. Crucial, because plot imparts to a tale its strength; it gives it tension, and drives a reader’s curiosity. In the Necromancer, plot was what kept the readers on the edge of their seats:

I was constantly on the edge of my seat wondering what would happen next and who it would happen to.

—Margaux Danielle, a kind reviewer.

But plot is also difficult. Here’s why.

Why is Plot Hard?

As I’ve already alluded, plot is highly complex. It is best understood with a metaphor. Consider the act of putting a puzzle together; one effectively starts with several separate pieces of puzzle, whose purpose is perhaps clear individually but less so in the aggregate. Now consider trying to put the puzzle together when certain pieces are liable to change, or indeed—when you don’t yet have certain pieces.

Now you may understand the nature of the problem. When one plots, one effectively brings together ideas and scenes: one may, for example, have the piece of Linaera (chief protagonist) meeting with the necromancer. But how, one wonders, did she get there? One can have the pieces of cities wrapped in cold winter, or of strange magics worked under the canopy of a distant forest; and yet numerous details remain unresolved.

What makes plot more difficult still is the aspect of pacing, and fluidity. Haphazardly moving from scene to scene does no good. It must be that the tale progresses naturally to its intent.

Furthermore, some plot elements work best when correctly timed. If one’s protagonists are to be attacked by mutant creatures, perhaps the moment when they do so can be subtly foreshadowed. And maybe if Linaera is to fight monsters wrought of dark magic, then may the reader also be in doubt, initially, as to whether she has perished.

But Alex! How do you Write Plot?

As of present, I am of the belief that plot is a process both planned and spontaneous. I begin by outlining the key events that are to occur in a tale; these will be the directions by which the tale is built on, but even so they are flexible.

Secondly, I plan individual chapters and scenes. But this is not a mere synopsis of everything that is to occur; rather, it more of an outline, and a tool by which to organise a great many thoughts.

Even with planning, my chapters never quite turn out the way I expect them to. That’s part of the charm. If I do not quite know what direction the tale is to take, how can the reader? Indeed, not knowing is what gives my tales that sense of pent-up excitement, of ‘wondering what would happen next and who it would happen to.’

But nor is this to say that one can just waltz up to writing a book. I initially took such an approach in the Necromancer, and it was a mistake I never quite got over. Planning is necessary to clarify and to give light to.

To Conclude

Thus far I have written a great deal on the matter of writing. I hope my musings have been both fascinating and entertaining; regardless, I shall next be writing on very different matters. I may write on Syria and the situation there. Or, perhaps I shall be bold and address an entirely novel topic: moral philosophy.

But until then, may the stars be with you. Also, do await my updates with regards to the Ark’s progress—including notes on chapter thirteen, and news of an upgrade I am making to my computer. That will allow me to spend less time waiting on the computer and more time writing.

Anyway: enough of that. Begone!

The Length of a Story

Hail readers!

Previously, I wrote on matters of writing; specifically, that concerning how much detail is too much detail—especially in sex. To continue from my literary deliberations, today I address another oft-troublesome aspect of writing: length.

Writers often feel anxious about the length of a book: will I write enough, the more inexperienced among them wonder; what if I write too much, think others. Both, you may notice, assume there is particular set length to a story—but is this true?

In a manner of speaking, yes. A sweet romance tale is best when told with strictly the detail and length required to capture the lover’s heart; no more and no less. A sweeping epic fantasy novel, on the other hand, or a thought-provoking scifi masterpiece—they need length. Length is part of their charm. They wouldn’t be what they are were it not for all those dialogues on philosophy (what is knowledge? What is moral? etc.) or on science, or on the architecture of the world—a particular favourite of ours.

But so too is there a degree of… flexibility, in length. Perhaps the epic fantasy novel may choose to employ language in a manner befitting of 18th century writers—as is indeed traditional. Or, perhaps it may not. Maybe the scifi masterpiece could do with missing a particularly technical discussion on the means of propulsion of the spacecraft. And maybe that romance novel might need a bit more side-character development or plot.

So how does one determine a suitable length? To answer that, one must go back to the key principles of writing.

The Key Principles

All tales are unique, but I believe certain key principles are universal among them all. These are:

1. The struggle. A significant philosophical discussion can be had here; but as far as we, the writers, are concerned: a tale must have a struggle. It could be the protagonists finding what lies in their heart, and the struggle to find love. It could be a struggle to defeat a disturbed but immensely powerful necromancer. (Did anyone mention the Necromancer?) Or it could be a struggle for life—a struggle to reach the spaceship that will bring you to salvation.
2. The fight. How do the protagonists find love? How is the Necromancer vanquished? (Not telling!)
3. Resolution and aftermath. If the duo (or trio?) do find love… what happens after? If the Necromancer is indeed vanquished… what will become of his apprentice? And so on.
4. Life etc. What happens in the meanwhile? And why, oh why, is it important? It could be to bring depth to the characters; it could be to elucidate on the finer details of a world. Or it could be there simply because… stories are like that.

Now, the above is probably incomplete. And addressing even these basic principles would require an entire book devoted to the subject—such is the complexity of writing.

But for our purposes, let’s consider these principles specifically with regards to length.

How Long is Too Long?

Without doubt, the first three principles make up the core of a tale; you cannot remove those. You can shorten them, perhaps, or re-write them—but you cannot remove them.

Number four, on the other hand, is where the grey truly lies. Number four makes up the bulk of a story; why? Well—because it’s lengthy by its very nature, and important in the workings of the tale. But: it can be cut down.

However, this is not to say that one ought necessarily do so. My scenes in the Necromancer that pertain to, for example, the workings of the mage schools; or, in the Ark, the scenes relating to the protagonists’ education and life more generally—these are important in developing the world and the characters.

Still, let’s be honest: it’s not as if the exact reasons for why fireballs break up beyond ~500m or why certain bullets are only used rarely make up some key idea.

No. The question that a writer must ultimately ask themselves is rather: how far do these scenes serve the first, second and third principles? For these scenes do, in fact, possess a peculiar derivative quality. In some ways, principle four is an extension meant to serve the other three.

Language

A final concern lies with language. Even beyond a large number of subplots or backstory, the workings of language can extend or contract a book’s length to great degree. Consider:

The city known as Trebon by those who inhabit its boundaries, or as Trabean-bennevont by those that made its ten foot thick walls by a hundred feet high, is majestic indeed. The Elves known as the Druiadath had named it ‘the Forest of Stone and Blood’—and as for why, well: that is no trouble for any man with half a sight to see.

For a thousand years the city had stood firm. A thousand by thousand soldiers had dashed themselves against its walls; all had perished. It is said that in the city’s catacombs their bodies lie entombed, for purposes that only the city’s necromancers know; it is said, also, that in the city king’s throne is made from the bones of some terrible beast, summoned centuries past.

The Black Beast of Denar—if it is indeed that beast which the legends speak of—had torn ten cities and a hundred towns to pieces. It had turned thousands of soldiers to bloody ribbons; but even it could not flout that impregnable gate.

But the force that rules it now had broken the gate. That feat had been performed by Selein, the city’s new ruler. He had used nought but his own power.

They say the sky went dark as raven’s wings; they say that some strange phantasmagoria had stolen into the city’s domain; they speak of dead men that walked, of mothers turning against their babes, and of a strange blackness that cut through the Great Gate as if it were no more than string.

They say Selein opened the gates of Hell.

The above is large enough to occupy a page; and yet Trebon could have been described in perhaps half that, had I truly been willing. Indeed, some writers can take the above—which is merely very detailed and verbose—and turn it into three pages, by festooning it with flosculations and asides.

And to some degree, fantasy works on that. It likes it when you describe the world with many names, according to many people, and through the ages of history. It loves legend (e.g. the Black Beast). And it also likes this kind of detailed description—of ‘dead men that walked, of mothers turning against their babes,’ and so on.

But the kind of writing above would be less appropriate for a thriller or a romance. And, even in fantasy, things can be taken to their extreme:

There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar; and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad. But for a long while they sang only each alone, or but few together, while the rest hearkened; for each comprehended only that part of the mind of Ilúvatar from which he came, and in the understanding of their brethren they grew but slowly. Yet ever as they listened they came to deeper understanding, and increased in unison and harmony.

And it came to pass that Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur and declared to them a mighty theme, unfolding to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed; and the glory of its beginning and the splendour of its end amazed the Ainur, so that they bowed before Ilúvatar and were silent.

Then Ilúvatar said to them: ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will. But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.’

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each, and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased.

—J.R.R Tolkien, the Silmarillion.

The above is certainly beautiful, but Tolkien takes so many pages to say what may take but paragraphs that, truth be told, the Silmarillion was only published because it was written by Tolkien.

To Conclude

Ultimately, the length of a book—or, should I say, the ideal length of a book—depends on genre and on the tale’s personality. Some fantasy works, such as for example the Hobbit, are quite fond of the embellishments of writing and the details of the imagination; others, like—say—Prince of Thorns, are rather less verbose.

To really address the question of length, one needs two things. Firstly, one must understand one’s creation. And secondly: one must consider how far the language, or the fourth principle, actually contribute to the three key principles.

Anyway: I believe I have addressed this question as far as it is possible for it to be addressed. I shall be back with more news on the Ark—which has thus far accrued 200 pages—and will also write on a topic of current affairs.

Until then: may the stars be with you…