Within the spacious confines of the great dragon library, young Iorneste looked about with complicated feelings about the world he was leaving behind.
Being of the proud race of great wyrms called Drac, spirits of magic and emotion made flesh, wise and powerful beyond all imagining, with a culture that spanned the ages, he felt the proud record of his people, and was proud to be of them. He had read of their accomplishments, and heard stories of their ancient deeds, some from their very lips, spoken with long pauses in the articulate voices of those unsullied by time.
People have said it for years. “Why don’t you write something?”
“You’re a pretty good writer, you should write something.”
“Why don’t you write for a living?”
That’s just it. I write all the time. I can’t stop myself. But I’m an unmedicated ADHD person, and I start a chapter or two, or some fragment of something that might be a good story someday, and then I lose interest. I’m not sure how to continue. Where should the story go next? I am not sure if it’s even any good.
So I had an idea one night, a story about…