The pain made sense to her. Those fictional stories of misery and despair she found oh-so-compelling, those records of agony so impossibly bleak and hopeless that they moved her to tears—they could take the pain she felt and transform it into something more; recontextualize it, give it shape and definition, endow it with a sense of purpose. She could immerse herself wholly within them, each a vicarious release so sublime that, for a moment, she would almost forget how formless and empty her true sorrow was.
Over the past year, a long-term goal of mine has been steadily becoming a reality. Through years of struggling with personal issues, I am finally nearing completion on That Novel I Was Always Planning On Writing.
I still have a small distance further before I'm finished with the bulk of the text, and further still until it's edited to my satisfaction, but it is no longer a far-off dream. It will be done in the next month or two, and then I will finally get to show it, in whole, to other people.
But, if I want people to care about it when it comes out, I need y'all to be excited about it first, right?
So, below the jump: please enjoy a single, out-of-context chapter (about 2.5k words) from my forthcoming pulp fantasy novel: Summoned to Another World, But All I'm Supposed to Do is Farm Mythic-Rarity Raid Drops.