I said eleven, but a twelfth whispered its way in at the end.
Twelve stories that were written in moments between the dark and the light, the mist and the cheerful sunshine. When I look at them now, I wonder how I ever got them done. Most tumbled out of the sky and onto my screen and it was really a matter of finding time to type the words into shape. Several were found amongst the weedy remnants of other stories. Television inspired two of them, which is why I like having that visual storytelling device in my house. More than one would have been a novel of its own if I'd had the stamina.
Twelve stories that wanted to be told, in their own words, on their own terms. Dragon tales and rivershadow tales and all of them tales of people in love of some sort. As I gathered them, they gathered me; they took me to quiet, foggy inlets where crooked little hills murmur poetry as they grow out of the brown sea, and to wind-singing towers, and the world from where stories come - from where some of us come, the secret-eyed people, the exiles.
And that is why I love fantasy or fairy stories. They remember a distant real.
And that is why I love writing. It feels like going home.
The book will be available here tomorrow to anyone who would like to donate to our sports fund for the coming season.