This is where I share the creative journey behind Aether Forge, not the story itself, but the process of bringing an imagined world to life. From the first spark of an idea to the countless hours spent writing, rewriting and refining, you’ll find honest reflections on what it takes to build an epic fantasy from the ground up.
Whether you’re a fellow writer, a fantasy reader or simply curious about the creative process, I hope you’ll enjoy following the adventure.
I honestly can’t remember the very first fantasy book I ever read.
I suspect I was very young, because at that age books simply appeared. One day there wasn’t a dragon in your life, the next day there was, and somehow that seemed perfectly normal.
One of my strongest memories, though, is reading Watership Down when I was about eleven years old.
I became completely absorbed by it.
So much so that I started taking it to school with me. Every time the bell rang and everyone else rushed to their next classroom, I’d hurry there too—but not because I was particularly keen on the lesson. I’d get there first, sit on the step outside the classroom, open my book and disappear into another world for the few precious minutes before the teacher arrived.
To everyone else, I probably looked like a rather odd child voluntarily reading during break.
I was teased mercilessly for being a bookworm, a nerd and, on more than one occasion, a weirdo. Looking back, children have an extraordinary ability to spot someone enjoying themselves and decide that something must be done about it.
The funny thing is…
I didn’t care.
Because while everyone else was standing in the corridor, I wasn’t.
I was running alongside Hazel and Fiver. I was exploring places where every hill might hide another adventure. The real world faded away for a little while, replaced by one that somehow felt just as real.
As I grew older, my bookshelves filled faster than I could build them.
There was The Hobbit, which opened the door to Middle-earth and showed me that a simple journey could become something legendary.
Then came Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea books. They weren’t just adventures; they felt thoughtful and timeless, proving that fantasy could be quiet, philosophical and deeply human without ever losing its magic.
I also discovered Barbara Sleigh’s wonderful Carbonel books, where an ordinary cat could turn out to be a royal cat with a kingdom to save. Those stories captured exactly what I loved most about fantasy—that extraordinary things could be hiding in the most ordinary places.
By the time I was in my early twenties, I stumbled across David Eddings’ The Belgariad.
Not long afterwards came Terry Pratchett, whose books somehow managed to make me laugh out loud while quietly reminding me that human beings are gloriously ridiculous creatures. He had the remarkable ability to hide profound truths inside jokes about wizards, witches and talking luggage.
Then Robert Jordan arrived with The Wheel of Time and demonstrated just how vast a fantasy world could become. Entire cultures, histories and politics unfolded across thousands of pages, yet somehow every piece seemed connected.
Around the same time, I also discovered Julian May’s The Many-Coloured Land, another series that stayed with me long after I’d finished reading it.
The truth is, there are far too many books to mention.
Some I’ve read once.
Many I’ve read several times.
A handful I’ve returned to so often that opening them feels like visiting old friends.
About thirty years ago I borrowed—or perhaps owned—a fantasy novel that I’ve never been able to identify since. I’ve searched bookshops, forums and websites for years, but I’ve never found it again.
Here’s everything I can remember.
Two aliens arrive on what is essentially a fantasy world. They’re searching for another member of their own species. One disguises himself as a travelling bard. The other can’t quite manage the transformation and ends up spending much of the story as a black cat. I remember it being funny, adventurous and a little dangerous, with something relentlessly pursuing them.
That’s it.
Thirty years later, that’s all I have.
If that rings a bell with anyone reading this, please let me know. I’d love to solve a mystery that’s been following me around for three decades.
This one wasn’t on a bookshelf.
It arrived quietly, settled into my imagination and refused to leave.
So I started writing.
For several months I poured everything into it, building chapter after chapter until I had around fifty pages.
Then my computer died.
Completely.
This was long before cloud storage became part of everyday life. Back then, backing up your work was something everyone knew they ought to do, in much the same way everyone knows they ought to eat more vegetables.
Naturally, I hadn’t done either.
Every page disappeared.
I thought about starting again, but life had other plans. Work, responsibilities and the everyday business of living gradually pushed the story aside.
Not as a vague memory.
Not as nostalgia.
It returned with exactly the same determination it had all those years earlier, as though it had simply stepped outside for a while and expected me to carry on where we’d left off.
The novel I’m writing today isn’t exactly the same one I started eighteen years ago. It couldn’t be. I’ve changed. I’ve lived more, read more and, I hope, become a better storyteller.
Perhaps losing that first manuscript wasn’t the disaster I thought it was.
Perhaps the story simply wasn’t ready.
Whatever the reason, Aether Forge is where that journey begins.
Not with spoilers.
Not with maps covered in mysterious names.
Not with character biographies.
This is where I’ll share the journey instead—the victories, the frustrations, the lessons and the occasional reminder to back up absolutely everything.
Because if fantasy has taught me anything over the years, it’s that every great adventure starts with a single step.
And occasionally, a catastrophic computer failure.
