Lynn Flewelling Quotes

You always have a choice. Don't ever imagine you don't. Whatever you do, it's a decision and you have to accept responsibility for it. That's when honor becomes more than empty words.

I was always a 'let's pretend' kind of kid.

At first it was simply that the spells would not come off. Or they would, but with the most unexpected results. He would try to move a small object, a salt cellar; it would overturn. He would try again and the salt would burst into flames. On the third try it might fly at his head, or mine. One day he attempted a simple messenger spell, and in the space of five minutes every spider, centipede, and earwig in the place came swarming in under the door. We began conducting his training outside after that.

"Attempting to levitate, he blew up an entire grove of trees in the park. A simple summoning, butterflies I think, and all the horses went crazy for an hour. Things soon reached such a state that whenever anything unusual happened within the Orëska grounds, we got the blame for it.

"Oh, but it was frustrating! In spite of all the blunders, all the destruction, I knew the power was there. I could feel it, even when he could not. For he did succeed now and then, but so erratically! Poor Seregil was devastated. I saw him brought to tears just trying to light a candle. Then there was the time he turned himself into a brick.

Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful.

If you set your story in Rome, Ireland or Sheboygan, for that matter, go there. If you're broke, set it in the town where you live, or where you grew up.

When I started writing 'Luck in the Shadows,' I just wanted to create an adventure story.

Anything we do, talí, we do with honor.

I think the key is to give the reader characters they not only care about, but identify with, and to never take away all hope.

Then again, I don't suppose the very poor care much about the doings of the rich, either. The gulf is too wide. Not many have been on both sides of it, as we have.

The real world is the fantasy writer's scrapbook. Real history, real geography, real customs and religions are all invaluable sources of guidance and inspiration.

Everything we do, talí, we do with honor.

It's one thing to accept one's destiny. It's quite another to live it.

A crafty nightrunner died of late,
And found himself at Bilairy's Gate.
He stood outside and refused to knock
Because he meant to pick the lock.

The move to creating stories was a natural progression for me, but the most pivotal time was probably in 6th grade: That year, a friend introduced me to the stories of Ray Bradbury, and a student teacher introduced me to creative writing.

Imagine - Lord Seregil and Lord Alec slapped up in the Red Tower for common housebreaking? No one knows what we really are, or what we've done for Skala. It would just be shame and dishonor, and for what? Because some titled slip of a girl couldn't keep her skirts down on Mourning Night, then decided she wanted a proper marriage? For that, I risk losing you?

These are Plenimaran marines, and there's not much most of them aren't capable of, if you take my meaning."
"I don't think I do," said Alec, puzzled by Seregil's tone.
"Then try this. They have a saying among them: 'When whores are few, a boy will do.' Got that?"
"Oh." Alec felt his face go hot.

They have a saying among them: 'When whores are few, a boy will do.

So I might have to marry Alec when I'm grown," Illia was prattling across to Seregil. "I hope that won't hurt your feelings too much."
Seregil slapped a hand over his heart like a troubadour in a mural. "Ah, fair maiden, I shall slay a thousand evil dragons for you, and lay their steaming black livers at your dainty feet, if only you will restore me to your favor."
"Livers!" Illia buried her face against Alec's shoulder with an outraged giggle.
"You wouldn't bring me livers, would you, Alec?"
"Of course not," Alec scoffed. "What a disgusting present. I'd bring you the eyeballs for a necklace, and all their scaly pointed tongues to tie your braids with.

I hate being told what to do! Especially by myself!

But is it an honest living?" Alec persisted, clinging to his last shred of resolve.
"Most of those who employ me are great lords or nobles."
"It sounds like a pretty dangerous line of work," Alec remarked, aware that once again Seregil had side-stepped the question.
"That's the spice of it, though," cried Seregil. "And you can end up rich!"
"Or on the end of a rope?"
Seregil chuckled. "Have it your way.

Realism isn't something most people associate with the fantasy genre, yet it's an essential element of great fantasy writing.

Talí." It was the only thing Seregil could think of that encompassed everything he felt right now.
Alec smiled. "You called me that by accident the first time, remember?"
"Unthinking, perhaps, but no accident."
Alec's cheeks went crimson as he declared softly, "You're my talí, too.

What does talí mean? Is it Aurenfaie?"

"Talí?" A ghost of the old grin tugged at one corner of Seregil's mouth. "Yes, it's an Aurenfaie term of endearment, rather old-fashioned, like beloved. Where'd you pick that up?

Though you thrust a knife at my eyes, I will not flinch.

I come from a very small city in a rather remote part of America, where writers simply weren't part of the daily fabric.