Introduction

I know this is a self-indulgent, stereotype-laden, poorly-written fragment of a story. I think the bones of a story are there, and it has some good lines, and a few other qualities of which I'm fairly proud, but most of it is, well, drek. Dreamy introverted 16-year-old girl drek. (Note: I've grown up since then.)

However terrible, it's still my story. It's dearer to me than other parts of my life at that age (*cough*gym class*cough*). I remember huddling in a corner of the basement at my grandparents' house one summer, trying to recreate imagined events in real words on real paper (college-lined looseleaf) with a real pencil (mechanical, 0.7mm lead). I could fall into reverie for hours at a time, blissfully unaware of everything else around me, waking to dinner or exhortations to "do something, for God'd sake!" as if from a dream. It's a beautiful sensation I haven't been able to capture since then, and no matter how tangibly painful the results, it's important to me.

And I love my characters, I really do. (Even Celeste.) I love Tanith; it's in my mind's eye more clearly than some places where I spent actual time. I love the plot and can see it moving in all sorts of directions, ones that don't depend on shiny-armored knights rescuing distressed damsels. I even love my then-obsession with stream-of-consciousness non-sequiturs separated by dashes. (I have no idea where I got that.)

The way I figure it, if books like Twilight can become New York Times bestsellers, then surely my harmless little fantasy about princes who can't keep their crowns on straight and wizards who wear sneakers with their jeans and young cantankerous women who are more than what they seem...well, it can't be that bad, right?

I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't, you can't say I didn't warn you.

Best wishes,
(age 30)