I've already discussed this at some length. The short version: when I wrote the first "Covenant" trilogy, I threw in a lot of stuff (Sandgorgons, Elohim, etc.) just for world-building; I had no intention of continuing the story. But when I realized that I both wanted and knew how to continue the story, I planned "The Second Chronicles" and "The Last Chronicles" before I started writing "The Wounded Land." And a significant part of that planning involved "mining" the first trilogy for raw materials. Well, by now "The Last Chronicles" has been pretty thoroughly planned. But I have to admit that the "mining" process is still underway. Putting it another way: I know very well what I'm trying to forge; but I still occasionally need ore. And every once in a while I *do* get that "they are gonna love that" feeling. Shameless, I know: a real character flaw. <grin> But there it is. (10/02/2005)

1) No, "The Real Story" is the only time I've had that experience, and the only time since I "turned pro" that I've suppressed (temporarily or otherwise) a story I've written. Of course, my files are full of what I think of as my "journeyman" work (although a more appropriate term might be "juvenalia"). But I had to start a long way back in order to get to "Lord Foul's Bane." Please trust me when I say that no one needs to read my adolescent flounderings. 2) I've seen "Princess Mononoke" and "Howl's Moving Castle." Enjoyed them both. But the problem, as I see it, with a "Covenant" film isn't live action vs animation: it's internal vs external. Prose allows me to go inside my characters: film inherently looks at the characters from the outside. In other words, film is a fundamentally different form of storytelling, with entirely different strengths and weaknesses; strengths and weaknesses which, I suspect, are not well suited to my stories (especially the "Covenant" stories). (10/02/2005)

I don't have favorite races/cultures/creatures/whatever. That's too generic. I have favorite characters. But I hasten to say--as I've often said before--that my favorites change from day to day and situation to situation. However, I suspect the results clearly indicate that I have found the Haruchai to be more creatively, well, fecund than anyone else. Even when compared to the Giants, the Haruchai have been a more constant presence in the overall story, and have supplied me with more individual characters. (10/02/2005)

This is not a problem that I've ever heard of before. Of course, all human endeavors are susceptible to mishap; and that definitely includes publishing. Still, your experience seems a bit extreme.... At one time, bootleg e-copies of the first six "Covenant" books were available on the web. But I'm told that source has now ceased to exist. Sorry about that. (10/05/2005)

Unfortunately, I also don't have Mr Castano's e-address. So I'm posting this in the (admittedly faint) hope that he'll see it. I'm not at all familiar with the site you (ahem) cite, so I can't vouch for it. (10/05/2005)

Forgive me if this sounds brusque; but I'm afraid that all of your questions fall squarely under the heading of RAFO. Although I don't mean to increase your level of frustration, let me just say that I actually *like* answering such questions--in the story itself rather than in this interview. But that doesn't ever mean I actually *will* answer them: it simply means that if I *do* answer them I'll enjoy it. (10/05/2005)

As I keep saying, I seldom have *conscious* antecedents (with the obvious exceptions of Wagner's Ring cycle for the GAP books and Tolkien's LOTR for "Covenant"--which, now that I think about it, hardly counts as "seldom" <grin>). Nevertheless it's obvious that I've been influenced by all kinds of things (e.g. Wagner's music and story more than his libretto). In addition to citing Joseph Conrad, Henry James, William Faulkner, and Sir Walter Scott (and George Meredith and Shakespeare and Dostoevsky and Mervyn Peake and Alfred Lord Tennyson and...), I should probably mention Gerard Manley Hopkins and William Butler Yeats. The distinctive rhetoric of the "Covenant" books would not be what it is without all of them. (10/05/2005)

1) In my experience, the response to "Covenant" is not as, well, homogeneous as you seem to think. Some people read and *loathed* all six books. Some liked the second trilogy much better than the first. Some loved the first and couldn't stomach the second at all. Some threw "Lord Foul's Bane" into the fire after the first 50 pages and refused to read another word. Some killed themselves. Some felt redeemed. (OK, now I'm just having fun.) So I'm sure you aren't alone. Certainly Lester del Rey positively abhorred Linden as a POV character. 2) I've read both Moore and Marquez with great interest; but ultimately neither of them suits my personal taste. On the other hand, I enjoy Jim Starlin. And Gaiman's "Sandman" books I re-read regularly, despite the sometimes execrable art. 3) That judgmental remark notwithstanding, I'm truly not a visual person. I can't really answer your question--except to say that in all these years I've only seen one painting that made me feel the way the Land feels in my imagination (it was a rendition of Revelstone for the still-entirely-hypothetical film of "Lord Foul's Bane"), and I don't even know who painted it. (10/05/2005)

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I'm sorry to keep repeating myself; but I really did not base any of the places, powers, characters, or situations in the "Covenant" books on ANYthing from my own experience (except that I did own a white gold ring, leprosy is real, and Haven Farm is modeled on the place in south New Jersey--now a housing development--where I wrote the first three books). The explanation (such as it is) is that that's not how my imagination works. If anything, places/people/etc. from personal experience paralyze me as a writer. Only language truly fires my imagination. This does not make me "a more gifted writer". It simply means that I work with my limitations instead of against them, using *your* experiences to fill in the gaps. (10/05/2005)

I've said this before: on a conscious level (NOT the most reliable source of information), I decided to try my hand at mystery novels because I was so dissatisfied by other writers' mystery novels. From my perspective, both the "drawing room sleuth" (implausible puzzles) and the "hard-boiled detective" (static machismo) ignore the inherent wealth of the genre: unparalleled opportunities to examine character. To the extent that I wanted to work within a tradition, it was that of Raymond Chandler and Ross MacDonald. But even they fail one of my urgent requirements: an organic, personal, *necessary* relationship between the detective and the crime. So (like James Fennimore Cooper long ago), since I didn't like what I was reading, I decided to try to do better. The resounding commercial failure of "The Man Who" books suggests that I may not have succeeded. <grin> As for my unconscious motivations, they are purely a matter of speculation. But if you have *way* too much time on your hands, you might consider looking for connections between each Brew/Ginny novel and the immediately preceding sf/f epic. (10/05/2005)

I think I know what you're talking about. As a reader, I sometimes feel almost *exalted* by the power of brilliant writing and storytelling, even when the writing and the storytelling are all about pain. But as a writer, that isn't really possible for me. All of the to-ing and fro-ing, the self-doubt, the complex and vital efforts to solve what are essentially insoluble problems, that I find necessary (perhaps because of the nature of my ambitions, perhaps because I'm simply that kind of person) prevent the experience of writing from having much resemblence to the experience of reading. And the situation is worsened by the "experiential" way in which I write: I try--as much as imagination permits--to "go through" everything that happens in my stories. "The Runes of the Earth" was certainly not a joyful experience for Linden Avery: therefore it could not have been joyful for me. The fact that writing and reading can be such different experiences is one of the more amazing--and ambiguous--miracles of being human. (10/06/2005)

I think the point on which I've failed to be clear is that it's a question of *degree*. White gold is the instrument of wild magic. Any passing stranger with a bit of lore and/or sensitivity could get *some* use out of the ring. And the more lore and/or sensitivity that someone-not-Covenant has, the more useful the ring will be. But only the ring's true wielder, someone who has an organic relationship with that specific ring (Covenant, Joan), can access *all* of the power of wild magic. The Elenas and Lindens of the Land can evoke a LOT of power from white gold; but a LOT is a far cry from the near-absolute power required to destroy the Arch of Time. Lord Foul has no use for a LOT of power: he needs near-absolute power. Hence the somewhat oblique focus of his machinations. Does that help? (10/08/2005)

Sorry. Neither my webmaster nor I have the time to compile the necessary database. News will be posted on this site promptly whenever I have any. (10/09/2005)

It's probably obvious that I think in extremes. Because I grew up with the subject of leprosy (in a manner of speaking), it was quite familiar. And I considered it an apt metaphor for the kind of private alienation and loneliness that might drive an otherwise ordinary--and possibly even kind and loving--man to become a potential Despiser. Certainly I know (based on experiences physically if not emotionally less extreme than leprosy) how Covenant felt. And the success of the various "Chronicles" suggests that many of my readers also know how he felt. (10/12/2005)

And thank *you*! I'm quite proud of "Mordant's Need." And I've often wondered why more readers don't seem to notice the transformative role of women in the story. King Joyse's response to what Nyle did and suffered was intended as both forgiveness ("I don't hold what you did against you") and apology ("I'm sorry that my actions put you in the path of so much harm"). But I had a deeper idea in mind as well. Under the right circumstances, a gesture of trust toward someone who has (apparently) shown himself unworthy of trust can have a redemptive effect. In a very real sense, King Joyse *is* trying to help Nyle heal. (10/12/2005)

<whew> That's a lot. Ordinarily I ask people to limit themselves to two questions at a time. But you've been waiting for quite a while.... Briefly, then: THE MAN WHO 1) As I've said elsewhere, my revisions to the first three books involved only minor polishing. In small ways, I wanted to improve the rhythm and flow of the narrative. In one case, I thought that a particular character's dialogue was stilted. And in a very few cases, I found the names of the characters jarring. By my standards, I changed nothing substantive. 2) When I began these books, I envisioned them as stand-alone novels--apart from the minor (!) inconvenience (?) of the fact that the characters change and grow. With the third book, however, I realized that I was not actually creating an open-ended series. Some facet of my imagination seems to require a unifying story arc. So now I have a fairly clear idea of my ultimate destination. 3) My pseudonym was imposed on me by my publishers as a condition of publication. My publishers then were--as most publishers today are--married to the idea of "category" publishing. The underlying assumption is that readers of one category *will not* read books in another category--and that if they are somehow tricked into opening a book in another category (e.g. by using the same author's name in more than one category), they will feel profoundly betrayed. I consider this errant nonsense; but very few people in publishing agree with me. And perhaps they're right. "The Man Who" books under my name have sold just as poorly as they did under the name "Reed Stephens." THE CHRONICLES As I've said in a different context, it's a question of *scale*. Violating the laws of weather to summon a tsunami in Seareach is an almost trivial disruption to the weather-patterns of the entire Earth. Unless the core Laws (e.g. gravity and convection) are unmade, they will promptly and naturally efface the effects of any localized disturbance. By its very nature, Law seeks stability; seeks to correct imposed imbalances. In other words, not all unnatural actions inevitably destroy (or even damage) the Laws which they violate. On the scale of such disruptions, breaking the Law of Death is a far more profound violation. Yet even there Law strives to preserve itself. Raising Kevin's spirit does not automatically mean that every spirit of everyone who has ever died is now free to roam at will among the living. In a completely different sense than the Giant-Raver's tsunami, Elena's violation of Law is also a "local" phenomenon: it pertains to very specific spirits under very specific conditions. Lord Foul does indeed want to escape the Arch of Time. But if his desire depends on the kind of piecemeal disruption that occurs in the first trilogy, he'll have to wait a REALLY LONG TIME before the fabric of the most essential Laws begins to unravel. Entropy is on his side: inertia works against him. Hence his hunger for an excessive application of wild magic. (10/12/2005)

Thank you! As far as I know, the Easton edition of "Lord Foul's Bane," the Bantam/Spectra "collector's" editions of "The Real Story" and "Forbidden Knowledge," Donald M. Grant's edition of "Daughter of Regals," and the Gollancz "collector's" edition of "The Runes of the Earth" are my only "high quality leatherbound publications." But at some point Hill House may also release a "collector's" edition of "The Runes of the Earth" (don't hold your breath). (10/12/2005)

By the end of TPTP, Elena is fully insane; so what do you expect? She's no longer capable of understanding--or even caring about--"the necessity of freedom." Why does the difference between "giving" and "taking" matter? Well, quite apart from the obvious moral issues.... Look at it this way: "taking" requires energy, perhaps vast amounts of it. That energy has to come from SOMEwhere, and of course it's going to come from the "taker" (where else would the "taker" get it?). So the more you "take," the less you *are*. Lore-wise beings like Kasreyn and Lord Foul understand that simply snatching Covenant's ring will do them more harm than good--especially when you consider the corollary that "taking" inherently prevents replication of the organic relationship between power and its natural wielder. (10/12/2005)

Well, many people see science fiction as a sub-set of fantasy. Others regard fantasy as a sub-set of science fiction. The connections are obvious: both rely on the creation of "secondary realities," realities noticably different than the one most of us have agreed to inhabit. (In this framework, space opera is a sub-set of science fiction, while epic fantasy is the "main event" of fantasy.) Nevertheless the distinctions are important. In sf, the differences between our reality and the secondary creation are explained materially (rationally): x, y, or z has happened in science/technology, and therefore reality is changed. In fantasy, the differences are explained magically (arationally): x, y, or z powers (which can be imagined, but which defy any material explanation) exist, and therefore reality is changed. As I see it, such distinctions have profound implications. For example, fantasy is--sort of by definition--a journey into the non-rational possibilities of the human mind (a journey inward): sf is a journey into the rational possibilities of consensus reality (a journey outward). Of course, any storyteller of high aspiration will use *any* genre (sf, fantasy, western, mystery, historical, etc.) to explore the possibilities (both rational and otherwise) of the human mind. Nevertheless each form of storytelling offers unique possibilities, poses unique challenges, and presents unique obstacles or limitations. So in one sense all storytelling is storytelling, regardless of form or genre, and in another each form is peculiar to itself (although naturally there are always exceptions). In the first sense, equating, say, John Carter of Mars (space opera) with Conan the Barbarian (epic [?] fantasy) is perfectly apt. But in the second, equating, say, Simmons' "Hyperion" duology with Erikson's "Malazan" epic confuses the actual content of both. So I think your friend is mistaken. "Orlando Furioso" is to its era as "Lord of the Rings" is to ours, *not* as Simmons' "Hyperion" is to ours. (10/15/2005)

Forgive me for saying so, but you have *way* too much time on your hands. <grin> No, I have never (and I do mean NEVER) "considered narrating unabridged versions of the first six Covenant books" myself. And I wouldn't do it at gun-point. Life is too short, and I have too many other things to do--including too many other books to write. (10/15/2005)

I learned what I know about writing by studying other people's writing, not by studying books *about* writing. With that in mind, I have two suggestions. 1) Imagine a character as unlike yourself as possible, and then narrate something from that character's POV, preferrably in first person. I did this exercise quite a bit during my journeyman years--which is how I learned that I'm simply incapable of writing "dialect" <sigh>. 2) Apply your "Chronicles" methodology to as many other books as possible (preferrably books you admire, but even ones you don't admire will help). If you draw on enough different sources, you'll end up with an amalgam which is entirely your own. (10/15/2005)

You're right: I didn't particularly enjoy "The Silmarillion". It's really just a bunch of fragments imperfectly woven together. As such, it lacks a unifying "story arc" which permits the material to both concentrate and accumulate. In the absence of those qualities, I get bored pretty easily. Putting the problem another way: "The Silmarillion" is about too many different characters and situations that have little or nothing to do with each other. But that's not my objection to prequels in general. My general objection is that prequels have no real suspense because their outcome is already known. They are, inevitably, "historical documents" rather than "vital storytelling". (10/15/2005)

Hey, I'm human. I have just as much ego, just as much vanity, just as much envy, just as much insecurity as anyone else: more than some, less than others. Of *course* I wish I had more readers. Of *course* I wish my work attracted more respect. Of *course* I wish other people had the good sense (?) to think the way I do. <sigh> But I'm smart enough to know that comparisons are invidious at best, and can be completely crippling. Far saner to attend to what *I'm* doing, and let the rest of the world attend to itself. And on that subject, a) I don't *want* "to knock out a dumbed-down trashy fantasy" (I have to look at myself in the mirror every day), and b) even if I did want that, I'm incapable of it because I can't turn off my brain (and if I could that would be the same thing as death). But make no mistake about it: J. K. Rowling is an extraordinarily skillful craftswoman. What she does doesn't appeal to me; but that doesn't mean she doesn't do it supremely well. (10/16/2005)

In big publishing conglomorates, hardback editors and paperback editors are always separate people. Hardback and paperback publishing are procedurally different in various ways; and in any case it's too much work for one person. But that doesn't mean a book gets edited twice. The editor who "buys" the book (and who could as easily be a paperback as a hardback editor) does the actual editing (working with the author to produce an acceptable text): the other editor simply handles the procedural business of producing and marketting the book in a different format. (To complicate matters, in my case US and UK transactions are separate. Therefore two different editors *do* work on the actual editing, one US, one UK. But in practice they share the job so that the author is not inundated with conflicting editorial demands.) So: "The Last Chronicles" was originally acquired for the Putnams empire by Jennifer Hershey (a hardback editor), who therefore became "my" editor. The paperback editor's job was simply to convert the hardback into a paperback--and to market it in paperback-appropriate ways. But since "Runes" Jennifer Hershey has left the company. So now the paperback editor, Susan Allison, has officially become "my" editor. If/when she's satisfied with the text of "Fatal Revenant," someone who doesn't work with me at all will oversee the production and marketting of the hardcover. It follows that when changes are made in a book between the hardback and paperback editions, it only happens at the *author's* insistence; and every editor devoutly prays it won't happen. (10/16/2005)

Since Amok was unmade by leading Elena and Covenant to the EarthBlood, I think we can safely assume that he was a one-time-only offer. Naturally the Bloodguard learned a few things by being around the Lords; but Kevin did not burden the Bloodguard with his lore. Of course, the Bloodguard weren't interested. But Kevin's deeper reason--and a wise one, in my opinion--was that unearned knowledge is dangerous. Power without understanding (not to mention wisdom) is dangerous. Kevin intended the mastery of each Ward to enable the discovery of the next--IN SEQUENCE--until all Seven were finally known. And this entire scheme would be undermined if Kevin supplied any deliberate short-cuts (e.g. by telling the Bloodguard where the Wards were). No, as matters stand the lore of the Old Lords is just plain irretrievable. (10/16/2005)

1) You're comparing apples and oranges. Of course, Covenant in "The One Tree" is not who he was in "The Illearth War": the parameters of discourse, if you will, are entirely different. But in addition Linden's "condition" in TOT cannot be compared to Elena's desperate straits at the end of TIW. Linden has (mostly) recovered from the crises of TWL and is functioning fairly well: Elena is in imminent danger of absolute destruction (or absolute corruption, take your pick). And, of course, Covenant has no particular reason to trust the Elohim--who may well be wrong in any case. 2) When Morin and Bannor aid Elena and Covenant on Rivenrock, they--in effect--enable Elena's insane use of the Power of Command. This introduces an inevitable self-doubt to a people who don't handle self-doubt well: you could say that it leaves the Bloodguard vulnerable to the consequences of the larger mistake of Korik, Sill, and Doar. (10/16/2005)

Clearly you haven't been reading the GI interview long enough to learn that I'm never going to die. <grin> Which, it probably goes without saying, is not at all the same thing as living forever. (10/19/2005)

I think I covered this some time ago. On the other hand, finding the answers you want in the GI must be a daunting task. <sigh> In any case.... Yes, I chose "moksha, turiya, and samadhi" deliberately, knowing what those words referred to in Sanskrit (broadly translated, they are all states of enlightenment). Those names reflect how the Ravers think of themselves. Their other names (Herem, Sheol, and Jehannum) are also real words, which reflect how other people think of the Ravers. Incidentally, real words (e.g. Elohim) are used as names here and there throughout the "Chronicles". But sometimes you can't recognize them unless you happen to speak Marathi. <grin> (10/19/2005)

This interview is littered with advice for aspiring writers. I won't repeat any of it here. In some form, I love all of my protagonists (although in some cases "pity" might be more accurate). I'm attracted to them for their possibilities, if not always for their initial emotions and actions. And I never hate them. For one thing, there is too much of "me" in them. And for another, I always know where they're going in the story, so I can appreciate why they need to go through their various stages along the way. In fact, I don't think of characters like Thomas Covenant--or even Angus Thermopyle--as "anti-heroes" at all. I would only use that term to refer to, say, Warden Dios, Cleatus Fane, or Nick Succorso. And even those guys inspire sadness rather than dislike in me. (10/19/2005)

Certainly my aim is to tell the truth about my characters and their dilemmas--and to tell it as vividly and sympathetically as I can. You could call that *my* task. But is it "the storyteller's task"? Who knows? I suspect that every storyteller has to make that kind of determination for him/herself, just as every reader has to decide what s/he considers important, valuable, or even fun. (10/19/2005)

I've answered these questions as well as I can. But if I tried for a hundred years, I couldn't really explain how I do what I do. In some essential but undefined sense, it's just the way I am. (10/20/2005)

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I’m sorry. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that this is yet another RAFO. (10/24/2005)

Well, I admit that ol’ Mick really takes a beating. In fact, “The Man Who Fought Alone” was rejected by a publisher on those very grounds: too much pain, too little reward. (Which is not the way *I* look at it, btw.) But he brace yourself adult material coming not to mention spoilers get laid in “Alone”. <grin> And Deborah Messenger’s name is not an accident. (10/24/2005)

Oh, I was! So I’m happy to say that I’ve already been invited to appear in the final episode. And if I ask nicely, they may even let me wear the wig again. (10/24/2005)

Serendipity can be a wonderful thing. As I’ve said before, when I wrote the first “Covenant” trilogy I had no intention of ever carrying the story further. Instead I had in mind what might be called an *implied* story for the Viles/Demondim/ur-viles: they were intended as an example in the background of Despite’s effect on the nature or content of reality. But when I realized that I had two more “Chronicles” to write, I soon discovered that some (a lot?) of the “background” in the first trilogy was ripe for additional development. The Elohim and Sandgorgons are just two examples. (10/24/2005)

I can’t imagine how this relates to the purposes of the GI, but…. As I get older, I find that more and more of the athletes I admire are from an earlier generation. John McEnroe and Roscoe Tanner in tennis, Bernie Kosar in football, Maurice Cheeks and John Stockton and Dr. J in basketball. But I no longer follow tennis. Perhaps because I was a varsity tennis player in college, when I lost interest in playing the game I lost interest in watching it. (10/24/2005)

This falls into the Department of Inevitable But Unconscious Influences. After the amount of time that I spent in college and graduate school studying--and admiring--Robert Browning, I can hardly pretend that I haven’t been influenced. But I wasn’t conscious of the influence while I was writing the first “Covenant” trilogy, and only dimly became aware of it later. Incidentally, Tennyson was a contemporary of Browning’s, and he also was *not* “producing epics about King Arthur and other traditional romantic heroes.” Sure, he wrote about King Arthur, but his theme was “decay, failure and despair.” And in a very different vein, George Meredith’s work was also full of darkness. I could go on. Victorian England was a fascinating time in part because its (extremely) conventional virtues elicited so much anguish from its more creative inhabitants. (10/24/2005)

<sigh> I’ll probably get in (even more) trouble for saying this, but I don’t buy the whole “redemption of mankind by Jesus” notion. As far as I can see, no one is ever “redeemed” by transferring the responsibility for or the consequences of his/her actions and intentions to someone else. (Just my opinion, folks.) Although I should probably be the last person on the planet to say anything that sounds like I don’t value outside help--and even outside intervention. I probably wouldn’t be alive today if I hadn’t experienced the power of “grace” in one form or another. On a number of occasions. But in my experience that “grace” has never taken the form of having my essential responsibilities shouldered by someone else. I’m committed to the idea of “working out my own salvation”--“with fear and trembling.” No, the third path for which my characters seek in “The Last Chronicles” is something else entirely--although children play a vital role, for good or ill. (Certainly *my* children are part of my experience of “grace”.) (10/24/2005)

In its simplest terms: the Elohim show no concern for the threat posed by Lord Foul because they see no threat--to them. They are rather self-absorbed. They believe that they are the answer to all things: therefore they can be in no danger. And they can see that other powers abroad in the Earth are adequate to deal with Lord Foul. Hence their vexation that Linden does not wield Covenant’s ring: that detail forces them to involve themselves in something that they believe should not be their problem. You could say that they only bother to Appoint one of themselves to solve a problem in order to prevent that problem from expanding to involve the rest of them. (10/24/2005)

This question keeps coming up. I've already tackled it more than once. To what I've said before, I'll just add two things. 1) The development of technology would violate the necessary conditions of the genre. (Just one example: LOTR. Elves live forever. After a few thousand years, don't you think one of them would get *bored* enough to try something new?) 2) Those conditions are necessary because they permit the telling of certain kinds of stories. Stories the essence of which is "magic" would be badly inhibited by "technology" (less by the specific technological developments themselves than by the attitude toward what constitutes reality which "technology" implies). The story that I want to tell in "The Last Chronicles" would be impossible in the presence of technological thinking. (10/26/2005)

I've had characters expand on me (always to good effect), but I've never had one shrink. Doubtless this is an effect of the way I work. Since I always know where I'm going (how the story is going to end), I also know who my major players have to be. That never changes. But sometimes (often?) minor players step out of the scenery and take on larger roles than I had originally anticipated (since I don't try to plan in advance every detail of how I'm going to get where I'm going). My emotions while I'm writing are pretty much the emotions of my characters (because I experience the story as they do)--with the difference that I feel frustration, fatigue, and despair more often than they do. My emotions when I've finished writing an epic depend on the passage of time. At first, I'm filled with depression, in part because I'm exhausted, in part because I can see how far I've fallen below my aspirations, in part because my life now seems to have no purpose, and in part because there's no ^#$^#$%$%ing closure (after mountains of writing come mountains of rewriting, followed by mountains of copyediting, followed by mountains of proofreading, followed by mountains soul-crushing promotional chores, followed by etc.). But gradually the situation changes. At times, rewriting can be almost restful (because it uses a completely different part of my brain)--except when I'm forced to hurry. Copyediting, on the other hand, is always infuriating beyond description. A finished book does provide a certain sense of closure, albeit too long delayed. And eventually enough time passes to let me look back on what I've done and feel proud of it. (10/26/2005)

Covenant and Elena are both in "impossible" situations, both literally and emotionally. Covenant has sex for the first time in, like, forever, and a few weeks later he's presented with a 40something daughter? Without going through any of the normal experiences of watching a child grow up? In a place that he doesn't even believe is real? Considering that the most powerful aphrodisiac in life is feeling desired by someone else? And that nothing about being a leper has prepared him to handle such situations? How could he possibly have an *appropriate* reaction? What could conceivably constitute an *appropriate* reaction in a situation like that? As far as I'm concerned, the fact that he doesn't act on his feelings is a triumphant display of his growing moral character. In one sense, Elena faces the same dilemma. Nothing that she's ever experienced has made Covenant real to her AS A FATHER. But in another sense, she stands on the opposite side of the problem. Almost EVerything that she's ever experienced has made him real to her AS A HERO, a figure of power, an enormously desirable source of redemption. Triock is the father-figure in Elena's life. Covenant is (in a manner of speaking) the figment of Lena's--and therefore of Elena's--most romantic fantasies. Does that help? (10/26/2005)

I suppose it would be fair to say that I intended to be "loud." The story wouldn't have much point if Covenant didn't start out as a believable servant of Despite. Until his crime against Lena, he's pretty much exclusively a "victim" (passive, abused, etc.). I needed to shift him out of that role as promptly--and as vehemently--as possible. Otherwise he isn't a potential Despiser: he's just another tool or plaything. So I also consider it important that Lord Foul wasn't whispering in Covenant's ear, or sending a Raver to control him, or shaping his behavior in any other way. That crime is all Covenant. If it weren't--if he could escape any portion of his responsibility for it--everything that follows would shift. Eventually the moral logic of the story would collapse. (10/26/2005)

I guess it depends on what you mean by "gone too far." Clearly I went "too far" for your personal taste in the GAP books. And there has to be *some* reason why a million "Covenant" readers (US) and 100,000 "Mordant's Need" readers (US again) have refused to touch the GAP books. But if "too far" is measured by my own artistic standards, or by the particular rigor of my storytelling ambitions, then no, I've never "gone too far." And I still say that the GAP books are the best work I've ever done (although I'm aiming even higher in "The Last Chronicles"). (10/26/2005)

I would be less than honest if I didn't admit that I've been known to feel a near-suicidal dismay at the sheer *scale* on which everything that I've ever done--except "Covenant"--has been rejected. <sigh> But gradually over the years I've come to understand that readers are people, just like everyone else; and just like everyone else, they have the right to make their own decisions. They don't ask my opinion when they make their decisions--and they shouldn't if they could. God knows I've never asked for *their* opinions when I'm deciding what to write. I'm wise enough to know that life is too short to be spent suffering over things like comparative book sales. Now if I were just wise enough to *live* by what I know.... (10/26/2005)

This question comes up a lot. But I don't actually understand it. It seems to advocate a violation of the essential conventions of storytelling. Of course, you're right: anyone from the Land who encountered Covenant or Linden would naturally be very curious (except perhaps in "The Last Chronicles," where the characters are so ignorant of their own world that they may not have much curiosity to spare). But from my perspective as a storyteller, it's an impossible situation. First, it would bog down the narrative something awful. (How *do* they make those boots? I've never seen anything like them. Well, they use a series of machines. What's a machine? Well, ohmyGod, this is going to take the next two hundred pages.) Second, dealing with such natural curiosity would involve telling the reader things the reader already knows. Third, simply asking questions about Covenant's/Linden's world would threaten the particular "suspension of disbelief" upon which fantasy necessarily depends. And answering those questions could violate the internal integrity of the fantasy world. Fourth, it's an inevitable necessity of storytelling that the teller has to judge what to put in and what to leave out. I leave out the natural curiosity of Stonedownors and Giants etc. because it simply isn't germane to my story--and I already have many truckloads of other stuff that I need to put in. (10/26/2005)

I'm posting this because I think everyone should know about the "Book A Minute" site. If you haven't been there, give yourself a treat. I'm not revealing the "ultra-condensed" versions of the first six "Covenant" books here because I don't want to spoil the surprise. As Dave Barry might say, "Thanks to alert reader Hazel!" (10/27/2005)

Here's another in the Department of Obvious But Unconscious Influences. I studied Flannery O'Connor in college and graduate school, so I can hardly pretend that I haven't been influenced by her (although much more in style than in substance). But the fact that I haven't mentioned her before in this interview demonstrates just how truly *unconscious* the influence has been. (10/27/2005)

Gee. Are "real-world terrorism" and "prescience" my only choices? How about serendipity? Or synchronicity? Or just plain dumb luck (in this case, *bad* luck)? I can't even pretend to have my finger on the pulse of the times. (Gosh, what a gift for a phrase! <grin>) On the other hand (OK, that will be quite enough of *that*), anyone who pays close attention to the people around him/her is bound to pick up any number of unconscious cues. Who knows? Maybe Osama bin Laden (sp?) read the GAP books. Maybe I really am to blame for all the ills of the world (as I was once accused of being--in public, no less). Sorry, I (still) haven't seen the new "Doctor Who". (10/27/2005)

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I know you're playing. And I know that toddlers actually do have despair. But I've never aimed anything that I've ever written at a "target audience"--unless you define a target audience as "someone like me." (The "Covenant" books weren't written for adolescents because I wasn't an adolescent when I wrote them.) I'm not likely to change now. (10/29/2005)

Strangely, I don't agree. Or it might be more accurate to say that I simply don't think in these terms. (Perhaps other writers do. And perhaps they produce excellent work. I wouldn't know.) As far as I'm concerned, words are the tools of thought. Fancy words, common words, sublime words, crude words: tools. Naturally I want to have as many tools as possible. The more tools I have, the more things I can think about--and write about. But--and speaking purely for myself--I believe that writers are *not* "custodians of language." A story isn't a museum--or a zoo. The writer's primary responsibility (as an artist in language) is to use the *right* tools for the job at hand. The story determines the language. And I see myself as the servant of the story: I do NOT see myself as a teacher (or as a--drumroll, please--polemicist) in any useful sense of the term. Of course, I'm always pleased when a reader (you, for example) shares my delight in the rich possibilities of language. But that happens in retrospect (after I've already written something): it has nothing to do with how I make decisions when I'm actually writing. (10/29/2005)

Another Inevitable But Unconscious Influence. (I need an acronym.) Since I grew up in India, Ohio fireflies were a delightful surprise. How could I not have been affected by them? But I wasn't *aware* of thinking about them when I created the Wraiths of Andelain. The mind can be a very strange--and unexpectedly oblique--place. (10/29/2005)