History Is A Wheel, For The Nature

A Cold Wind Was Blowing From The North, And It Made The Trees Rustle Like Living Things.

There Are A Number Of Things That I'm Trying To Get Into The Books. There's A Meta-fictional Aspect, If I May Use That Pretentious Word, To Writing Anything. You're Writing In The Shadow Of All The People That Have Gone Before And, In A Way, You're Having A Dialogue With Them. As Someone Who's Read J.r. Tolkien And Robert E. Howard And All The Great Fantasists Before, This Is Almost My Answer To Them.

His Sister Liked To Think Of Herself As Lord Tywin With Teats, But She Was Wrong. Their Father Had Been As Relentless And Implacable As A Glacier, Where Cercei Was All Wildfire, Especially When Thwarted.

Writing Is Like Sausage Making In My View; You'll All Be Happier In The End If You Just Eat The Final Product Without Knowing What's Gone Into It.

He Was Beastly Tired, But It Was Hard To Stop. One More Book, He Had Told Himself, Then I'll Stop. One More Folio, Just One More. One More Page, Then I'll Go Up And Rest And Get A Bite To Eat. But There Was Always Another Page After That One, And Another After That, And Another Book Waiting Underneath The Pile. I'll Just Take A Quick Peek To See What This One Is About, He'd Think, And Before He Knew He Would Be Halfway Through It.