There was magic, and there was magic. Thanks to Gutenberg, I could no longer pull wands, potions, and light sabers out of books, but when it came to research, give me a well-stocked library and I was a goddamned Merlin.
As was often the case, Magic just chuckled and kicked physics in the balls, leaving it groaning and wondering what just happened.
There are too many books in the world to waste time slogging through the ones you hate.
Questing is hard. Fortunately, Thomas is here to spoon-feed them answers. We’re one step away from him giving them an instruction sheet by Ikea, with cartoonish diagrams and a little goddess-slaying allen wrench.
I hadn’t thought to bring anything to wash down the blood. I wondered if they had a font for holy water, and whether anyone would object to me using it as a drinking fountain. Though given that I was trying to absorb vampire magic, using holy water as a chaser probably wasn’t a great idea.
None of us can foresee the consequences of such a step.” Ponce de Leon ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into place. “Though after centuries of watching mankind, I sometimes suspect intelligence is overrated.
I had said before that all stories were magic. It had never occurred to me that all magic was stories.
Find the stories you love, and don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re wrong for loving them. If.
I’ve said for years – ever since I figured out how to write Goblin Hero – that it’s important to give yourself permission to write crap. Perfection is the destroyer of art. It’s paralyzing. Art, whether it’s writing or painting or anything else, requires risk. And risk means you’re going to make mistakes. Sometimes you’re going to fail.
Those forced to make impossible choices are rarely loved. If it’s approval and reputation you care about, then you have no place here.
Trust is a choice. Actually, trust is more of a desperate, hopeful guess based on limited information.
Blind panic might not work all the time, but at least it saved you the stress of planning.
Story was magic. Magic was story. Memory was also story, disparate events linked together in our mind to create a narrative.
Can we all pause a moment to appreciate the artistry of that sentence? “Sitting casually on the floor, a guard sat... ” That’s freaking art right there! Someone nominate this thing for the Hugo Award already!
Jig had never worried about pursuing his destiny. Generally, destiny pursued him. Then it knocked him down and kicked him a few times for good measure.
Librarians: Kicking Ignorance in the Balls for Over 4000 Years.
Integration my undead ass. Did they teach you about the Great American Melting Pot in grade school?” she asked. “Some of us don’t like the idea of being melted down and blended into stew for the rest of you to devour.
You don’t do what’s right because you know it will work out. You do it because you know it’s right.
Judge not, lest ye be punched in the face for being a self-righteous prick.
Answers are easy. What’s the question?
We can know what was, but not what might have been.