And as imagination bodies forth                                                                                  The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen                                                               Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing                                                          A local habitation and a name.

William Shakespeare (A Midsummer Night’s Dream)

This is a blog about writing in all its forms.  Sometimes new and original but, mostly, that of others and my musings on it.  The above quote seemed an appropriate way to open as it mentions in its first line the writer’s greatest friend – his, or her, own imagination – and how, when it is given the opportunity it can create anything.  Clever chap that Shakespeare (and he must have had perpetually inky fingers).

What writer could resist taking that “airy nothing” and giving it a shape and form in line with their own creative desires? Who could say no to moulding a flurry of words into something meaningful?  To feel that shiver down their spine as they catch those elusive and fragile butterfly thoughts and pin them to the page?

I tend to write either Fantasy or Historical Fiction although I’m planning to branch out and write something with a really dark, gothic, theme next. At present it doesn’t even have a working title but watch this space.

My current project is a Fantasy called Fortune’ s Quest which takes place on an earth-like planet: Fortuna.  It started out as a Camp Nano novel in July 2014 and has now hit the 140k mark.  Too long for one volume, I suppose that means it’s turning into a trilogy.  Part I, Rise of the Dragonkin, opens as follows:

The man lay spread-eagled staring at the sky.  He had long since given up on any chance of escape. Having evaded his pursuers for several days he was now out of both food and ammunition and weakened by the chase.  Resigned to swiftly approaching death, he found he was not afraid. How could he be? Death had been his constant companion since childhood and a Messenger’s existence was never anything less than precarious as they crossed the open spaces between the castle of  Mages and the house of Wardens. He had taken the oath aware of the risks. He had not been coerced. He had lived, and would die, knowing he had made the right choice.
Above him the clouds were gathering and the thin, winter sun, finally disappeared. His exposed position in a scrubby field, far from any natural cover, left him open to assault from all sides but he knew, instinctively, it would come from the sky. He placed his right hand over his heart, over the owl tattoo that had been there since he had sworn himself to the cause.
“Nycticorax”. He whispered the name with fondness. “Fly to Phinn and tell him I have gone”.
Dark shadows were approaching on the wind and the air began to shimmer with heat. He closed his eyes.

Want to know what happens next?  Let me know.

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