They say “Write about what you love, write about what you hate.”

I love prose that makes me feel small - like a speck, here today but gone tomorrow, part of a history and a world that stretches far beyond the span of my existence. I love Tolkien's reverence for nature and his honesty about the weaknessess of men. I love it when heroes fail but friends pull through. I love language that is both humble and beautiful, free of pretence but takes full delight in wordcraft. I love the way Leguin makes me feel seen, and in turn calls me to see the darker parts of myself.

What do I hate? I hate stories that appeal to the basest parts of us, seeking simply to stroke our egoes and feed our lusts so they can absorb our minds and pick our pockets in the proccess. I hate craftsmanship is bent and distorted in order to make comodities. I hate how the things most precious and sacred to us are often used as leverage to control and manipulate us. I hate the cold indifference of the modern world and the lonely isolation so many of us live in.

I yearn for connection, I yearn to make something beautiful, something true... or at least something honest.

I do not think I am there yet, but that is where I want to go.