I’ve recently made a few lifestyle changes and the clarity that I’ve since experienced has fueled me both physically and artistically. I’m drawing with more regularity than I have in a long while, and I’m also writing again during those times when my hand needs rest.
If you’re familiar with my drawing, you may not be surprised when I tell you that I am as meticulous when I write; meticulous not only where word selection is concerned, but also about the things that the words are revealing.
I like there to be reasons for things, and I like my things to be based upon underlying systems. I like there to be a predictability as to why things behave the way that they do, but fantastically so. I like cause and effect, and repercussions, and I very much like it when characters are forced to weigh their decisions because of consequence.
I also like my worlds to be believable things. History makes a world a believable thing, and thus begins a slippery postulation: how far back must one go in order to set the underpinnings of a given world? In the case of my sisters, I’ve determined that it goes all the way back to creation itself.
I’ve resurrected the chapters I’ve written about my sisters, and I’m surprised at how very much I like what I’ve read with the unsullied eyes that years of abandonment have provided. Perhaps someday you’ll be able to read these words too, and perhaps you’ll like them as well. For now however, story by story, myth by myth, I’m discovering the systems and reasons and histories that precede their birth, and creating the world beyond our own that the sisters will find themselves thrust into.
Once the dust of creation has settled, the world will be ready and I can continue with the tale of the sisters. In the meantime, here’s a bit of the creation story (which has been incredibly fun to conceive and write), whereby we learn the first of the Seven Dreams:
Before all time was infinite perfection— dark, void, and silent. In perfection slept the Unspoken, weaving black dreams beyond the ken of sanity.
The usurping roar of creation pierced perfection and the all-encompassing nothing was rent, becoming something. The void was polluted with celestial bodies and primordial matter that winked and glittered in the arrogant light, and from every direction the unblinking gaze of innumerable burning stars revealed the writhing form of the Unspoken. The warmth of the light burned the Unspoken, and the song of the planets vexed them, and they longed to return to their infernal dreams.
The Unspoken gathered unto themselves the interstellar remnants and by-blows of creation, entombing themselves within a great and impenetrable shell. In this manner they shuttered the hated light and silenced the harmony of the cosmic song.
Thus was the earth created.
This is the First Dream.