The Writing Process of a Fantasy Bard

Write by the campfire on the eve of battle. Write for valor and for coin. Write the rhythms to keep friends marching, write the ballads to stop them bleeding. Write the retorts to turn the claws, write the refrains to stay the fire, the songs to enthrall and inspire. Write the words to halt death. Write the words to end all evil. Write those words. Write them.  

Write the quips you’ve already said. Write the melodies you cannot play. Write the lines that have lost all feeling. Write the saga sapped of meaning. Write to keep your friends alive. Write when your nib is dry and you’ve forgotten why you write at all. Write, for else you will die. 

Write a line of verse. Write a word. Write a syllable. Write a line of ink. Write anything. 

There are things a bard may not write. You may not write about dirt, about plague, about fear. You may not write about your lonely youth. You may not write about the village fair, when the quiet boy went to the stage and surprised everyone. You may not write about how it felt when your best friend came to you and said they finally understand your sense of humor and you cannot compress the prior eleven years you spent with them in such a way that an audience could ever understand why this compliment cut you to your core and why you trained to be a bard so as to never suffer such compliments again. You may not explain how a night where everything goes perfectly ends in a child crying in the dark of his room, alone.  

You may not write about the blandness of rations and the monotony of time and how you don’t want to be here. You may not write about how you never wanted to be here. You may not write about how you’re pretending, how you’re always pretending. You may not write about how your magic will fail as soon as you cease pretending.

Write instead about the person you’re pretending to be. Write the storyteller who knows how to write, write the poet who conjures verse and the musician who never misses a note. Write the bard who can immortalize his friends.  

Write them, and write what they would write.

Or, write as if you’ll die,

and you might yet stay alive.

Eóin Dooley is a writer from central Ireland. Having completed a master's degree in cognitive science and philosophy, he turned to creative fiction, primarily to stave off a PhD. This appears to be working. His previous work can be found in Red Futures, Solar Press, Elegant Literature Magazine and elsewhere. His debut novella is No Sympathy, a dark urban fantasy published by Android Press. Find him on Bluesky, @eoindooley.bsky.social.