Once upon a time, there was a place where Faerie Tales weren’t even real.
Naturally, this place was always confusing. There wasn’t even a Narrator, or, if there was, the existence (and nature) of said person was most hotly debated.
(Such a place could clearly not be civilized, I assure you.)
Not only was it rare to be a Prince, Princess, King, Queen, or Magician, it was also rare to be a Poor But Happy Peasant…and as for being the third of three siblings, of whom only one would amount to anything, that happened rather less often than one might expect.
Shoddy Faerie work, one shouldn’t wonder.
Naturally, the inhabitants of this Universe had a miserable time. Many of them disbelieved in magic and happy endings.
But worse, they didn’t believe that the authors of stories had a special vision into the nature and purpose of the Universe.
No, really. They thought authors were just ordinary people who happened to twerk words about, not the Wizards who guide all of Speed and Time.
Those people were fools.
That’s why we wrote them out of the story and left them in that Universe.
Come live in this one. We have a ballpit.
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You can get my first darkly-humorous fantasy novel as an audiobook, if you so desire.
And you could always follow me on Twitter, I mean X.
