Let me tell you, it’s great to be a fantasy writer. The sky’s the limit. Imagination is my oyster. I can do anything I want. I don’t have to obey the constraints of politics or physics. I can ignore the boundaries of biology and geography. I can imagine bold and exciting new worlds and populate them with amazing races. I can push my readers to the limit, expand their horizons.
So, let’s see. I know! I’ll write about a strange and compelling medieval world, populated by magic-using characters out of Scandinavian myth.
What? That’s been done to death?
No problem! I’ll write about love affair between an everyday human and a vampire!
Huh. That’s done too?
Onward! I’ll do a retelling of the classic Arthurian legend, only I’ll make all the magic real, and update the characters so that they have the cynicism and practicality of modern day folks.
Oh, really? Done already? Crap. How about a blending of modern cyber technology and magic? Elves with comput . . . ? Oh. Well, maybe we could do a . . . No?
You get the idea.
Here’s the thing that you don’t realize until you set pen to paper. The fantasy genre has been around for roughly a century in its present form. When you add in myths and legends, its been around since the dawn of civilization.
That’s a whole lot of stories. Stories about magic and dragons and supernatural detectives and affairs between vampires and zombies and elves who take Xanax to treat their generalized anxiety disorder.
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