I thought it would feel different. I thought I would. Ever since I first heard a fleeting mention, a chance-encountered rumour, of a people who could write worlds in books, my entire life has been tending to this point. I saw myself unearthing Age Books in deserted parts of D'ni, studying them secretly, decoding by mere brute force the symbols that shape the universe, and finally revealing my mastery to a wondering world.
In my dreams. I finally began to learn a week or so ago, under the auspices of the Guild of Writers. I am one of a number of students, all at different points along the learning curve, and we study one set of symbols at a time, working slowly and carefully and with much discussion and mentoring (sorely needed in my case) from the more advanced members. And of course I mustn't say that the symbols shape the universe: that I have learned the hard way. We do not create here; the songs we write are already composed and sung, the statue we carve already exists inside the stone. We have no creative will and no choices, we merely copy something we have never seen. That is the accepted wisdom. I keep my thoughts on that subject very much to myself.
Well, if some higher being created the Age I have just Written, one has to ask oneself why he, she or it bothered.
One Writes the landform, one shapes it, and then one gives it solidity. So far, so good. Except that I realised after I had shaped the land that I had Written it far too small: were I to link there, I would barely have room to stand. An easy correction to make: except that it seems to have had a knock-on effect on everything I have done since. When I tried to Write the particular types of stone from which the land should be made, I ended up with a sharp border between the two kinds rather than the gradual blend that the characters I was using should have resulted in. The rock formations became blocky and angular, instead of the smooth curves I had intended. And while, after much wrestling, I managed to include a scant dusting of soil, it was sterile and lifeless: nothing would grow in it. And this before I have even attempted to Write sky, or sea, or even sunlight. So much for the master of the Art.
My Age One is a dismal failure. And, doubtless, it will not be my last. The lesson: Know what you are going to Write before you set pen to paper, and do not go back and amend.
Onward.
Guild of Writers
