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5 Things I’ve Learned Writing My First Novel

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

When I first sat down to write The Veil of Kings and Gods, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting into. Turns out, I didn’t. Not entirely. What started as a story I’d been carrying around for years quickly became something bigger, more demanding, and surprisingly personal.

So here are five honest things I’ve learned while writing my first novel. No fluff, no glory, just the raw truths behind the word count.

1. Writing a novel is 20% writing, 80% rewriting

When people talk about “finishing a book,” what they usually mean is “finishing a first draft.” The actual writing is just the beginning. What follows is a long dance of trimming, reshaping, rewriting, and wondering what on earth you were thinking when you named a city “Flarnrath.”

Most of my real progress has come in the second draft, when characters became real, scenes started breathing, and I finally admitted that yes, that one chapter was absolute rubbish and needed to go.

2. Plot holes are sneaky little things

You can outline. You can plan. You can spend hours naming every town and hill. But I promise you, by Chapter 20, a plot hole you never saw coming will sneak up behind you like a fantasy tax collector.

Sometimes it’s a missing motivation. Sometimes a character forgets something they knew two chapters ago. Sometimes your own world’s logic turns on you. And that’s okay. Spotting the flaws means you’re actually building something worth fixing.

3. Characters have a mind of their own

This one still baffles me.

You give a character a role, supportive friend, rival noble, doomed warrior and before you know it, they’re wandering off-script, falling in love with the wrong person, or refusing to die when they’re supposed to.

It’s frustrating and brilliant. Because when a character surprises you, they’re starting to feel real. That’s when the story stops being yours alone and starts becoming something living on the page.

4. Worldbuilding is addictive (and dangerous)

Creating maps, lore, languages, timelines, ancient conflicts, it’s endlessly fun. But it can also become a brilliant excuse to avoid actual writing.

I’ve spent entire evenings designing a river system no one will probably ever look at, just to avoid a tough scene. It’s a delicate balance: build the world deep enough to feel real, but not so deep you never come up for air.

5. Progress isn’t linear, but momentum is everything

Some weeks I write two thousand words a day. Other weeks I barely manage two hundred. And that’s alright. It doesn’t mean I’m failing. It just means I’m human.

The trick is to keep showing up, to keep the story alive in your head and your heart, even when life pulls you in five different directions. Momentum builds when you stay close to the work, even if it’s just scribbling a line on your phone while riding the train.

Final Thoughts

Writing this novel has been one of the hardest and most rewarding things I’ve ever done. It’s taught me patience, discipline, and the strange kind of joy that comes from creating something nobody else can quite see, yet.

If you’re writing something of your own, or just thinking about it, I hope this little list reminds you that the struggle is part of the journey. And that you’re not alone in it.

Feel free to drop a comment below or subscribe to the blog if you’d like updates on my novel progress, lore posts, or random ramblings from the author cave.

See you in the next post.

What I’m Polishing Right Now And Why It Matters

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

I’ve reached Chapter 36 in the proofreading and editing phase of The Veil of Kings and Gods, and the pattern has become clear: this is no longer about fixing mistakes. It’s about tone. Rhythm. Weight. The spaces between words.

When I began this second draft, I thought I’d be reshaping large sections, reordering scenes, reworking arcs, perhaps cutting full paragraphs. And in truth, some chapters needed that. Yet here, in the later stages, the work has become quieter. More precise. Less like carving, more like tuning.

I’m refining sentence flow. Ensuring no paragraph ends with a stumble. Trimming where the language slows the momentum or where an image tries too hard to impress. Dialogue has taken centre stage again too. In Simion’s chapters especially, I’ve been paying attention to how he thinks, how he observes. His voice must remain grounded, measured, introspective, often solemn, but never flat. He is not a man who wastes words. So neither should I.

There’s also the matter of emotional pacing. Certain scenes strike harder now than they did in the first draft, and I’ve begun to see where quiet moments need to linger longer, or where a single line can carry the echo of something far greater if allowed room to breathe. Chapter 36, for instance, held a moment that was previously brushed over, just a line or two. This time, I let it unfold. Let it weigh down the silence.

None of these changes are structural. You won’t find a new character or a rewritten ending here. What’s happening is deeper: it’s the voice of the book aligning with its soul. And I know I’m close. There’s something sacred about this part of the process, where the raw story becomes refined enough to stand on its own, without commentary or apology.

So, that’s where I am. Nearing the final arc. Reading aloud. Listening for false notes. Letting the book breathe.

Thank you for walking alongside me.

Writing Through Illness Keeping the Flame Lit

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There’s a particular stillness to the house when one is unwell. The windows dim, the hours stretch thin, and even the simple act of sitting at a desk becomes a task weighed with strange solemnity. Over the past week, I’ve been writing through a heavy spell of illness, not the romantic sort that lends itself to poetic fever-dreams and sudden inspiration, but the ordinary kind. The draining, silent kind. Head fog, aching bones, and the slow drag of breath.

And still, the story asks to be told.

It hasn’t been easy. The rhythm of my chapters, those long, rolling sentences that mirror the breath of the world I’m building, do not come quickly when my mind is wrapped in cotton. Dialogue feels slower to surface, the flow of magic across a battlefield takes more effort to visualise, and Simion’s thoughts… his weariness starts to echo my own. Yet somehow, that makes the writing more honest. There’s no room for pretense when you are sick. What emerges on the page feels stripped back to truth.

There’s comfort in the discipline, too. Even a few hundred words become a kind of anchor. I’ve been working steadily through Chapter 31, part by part, and while I’ve not progressed at my usual pace, I’ve remained in the world. That matters more than anything. Staying inside the rhythm of the novel, no matter how slowly, prevents the silence from becoming distance. And when you are tired, truly tired, that distance grows fast.

This post is not a grand revelation, nor a triumphant declaration of productivity. It is simply a mark on the wall. A quiet signal that the story lives, even on days when the author does not feel particularly alive himself. If you are also working through something, whether a cold, a long week, or a deeper weariness, I hope you remember this: words written under strain are still worthy. They still carry weight. And sometimes, they carry more of you than you realise.

I’ll return to the cliff’s edge soon, where Simion waits beside those ancient stones. There is much still to tell.

Until then, rest, breathe, and if you can, keep the flame lit.

Why I Still Believe in Epic Fantasy in a Cynical World

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There are days when the weight of the world feels heavier than ink or fire, when the quiet corners of the soul grow dim beneath the noise of what passes for truth. In such moments, it would be easy to set aside the great tales, to dismiss them as relics, gilded stories carved for brighter ages. Yet I do not.

I still believe in epic fantasy.

That may sound strange to those who favour stark realism, whose shelves are lined with fractured heroes and greyscale worlds. We are told that truth lies in brokenness, that hope is naïve, and that honour is no more than an illusion passed down by old songs and older men. Perhaps. Perhaps the world has earned its doubt.

Even so, I return to the stories where kingdoms rise and fall, where swords gleam beneath ancient skies, and where the soul of a man can alter the course of the stars. I return not because such tales are easy, but because they ask the oldest question with unflinching grace: What is worth fighting for, when the world stands poised on the edge of ruin?

There is power in that question. Quiet, enduring power.

Epic fantasy, when it is true to its roots, does not flinch from sorrow. It walks beside it. It knows the weight of sacrifice, the silence after loss, the slow unwinding of power misused. Yet it dares to offer meaning in the ashes. It does not scoff at faith or nobility. It treats love, be it for a kingdom, a child, a forgotten god, with reverence rather than irony.

That tone, that trust, is something I refuse to let go of.

For me, writing within this tradition is an act of defiance as much as devotion. It is choosing beauty when the world favours bleakness. It is lifting a banner in fog, even when no one watches. And yes, it is believing in things unseen, magic, yes, but also memory, duty, and the soul’s quiet yearning for more.

There are moments in the story I’m shaping where the light fades, where characters stumble beneath burdens they cannot name. In those moments, it would be easy to give in. Yet the story holds steady. Because epic fantasy does not require perfection, it asks only that its heroes rise, however broken they may be.

In a cynical world, that still matters.

So if you find yourself weary of headlines, of noise, of shallow victories and hollow rage, step into a world where the stars still whisper, where the land remembers, and where even the most wounded soul may shape the fate of empires.

You may find, as I have, that there is more truth in those tales than many would dare admit.

How I Plan Epic Conflicts Without Losing the Characters

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

If there’s one question I return to again and again while writing The Veil of Kings and Gods, it’s this: how do you make war feel personal? Not just dramatic, not just explosive or large in scale, but real, rooted in the hearts of the people forced to live through it.

High fantasy is often filled with titanic clashes: gods levelling mountains, kings raising armies, ancient orders clashing across the centuries. But if I’m being honest, those scenes only truly work when they grow from something human. When a character you care about walks into the storm and you understand why.

I’ve spent the past year trying to balance these two worlds: the grand and the intimate. The arcane and the emotional. And nowhere has that balance been more important than in planning the major conflicts of this story, political, magical, divine. Today, I want to share how I approach that.

The Characters Always Come First

It sounds simple. Obvious, even. But when you’re building a vast world with kingdoms at the brink and gods whispering from beyond the veil, it’s shockingly easy to forget that someone still has to live through it.

For me, that’s Simion, Patrick, Týrnan. Each of them sees the oncoming storm from a different vantage point and each is wounded by it in ways that are quiet, personal, and rooted in character. Simion is a man caught between divine expectation and the fragile world of expectation. Patrick bears the weight of kingship while hiding parts of himself that would shatter his position. Týrnan fights not for conquest, but to keep his people from losing their soul.

The conflicts around them may escalate. But unless those conflicts are built on the foundation of who they are, their doubts, fears, loyalties, and flaws, the story would ring hollow.

Conflict as Mirror, Not Just Plot Device

One of my guiding principles is that every external conflict must reflect an internal one. If a battle breaks out between kingdoms, it needs to echo the unrest already stirring within the characters.

Take Patrick. His kingdom teeters on the edge of diplomatic collapse, but what drives that tension is not just geopolitics, it’s his own repression. His court senses weakness. His enemies sense distance. And Patrick, for all his strength, has no safe space to be fully himself. The war outside is the war inside.

Likewise with Simion, who is being slowly crushed by the power he once sought. The threats he faces aren’t always from enemies; sometimes they come from within, from his refusal to be the weapon the gods demands, from his fear of harming those he loves, from the ancient force he’s inherited that now forgets its own wisdom. These are personal wars. The divine and the magical are just the landscape they bleed into.

Intimacy in the Midst of Chaos

One of the joys and challenges of writing a large-scale fantasy series is finding the quiet in the chaos. There are scenes in Book 1 where cities are burning or armies are gathering, and yet the most important moment is a hand held too tightly, or a look that lingers a second too long. That’s what I strive for.

When Simion walks into battle, I don’t want the reader to think of fire and ruin. I want them to think of his challenges. Of the weight of the cloak he wears. These are the things that make his power mean something. Without them, he’s just another mage with too much fire in his hands.

And when Patrick makes a decision that could cost him the alliance of a kingdom, it’s not the politics that matter. It’s what he sacrifices to stand firm, the love he denies, the truth he cannot speak, the safety he’ll never truly have. These are the human costs, and they’re what I try never to lose sight of.

Final Thoughts

I love grand fantasy. I always will. But I believe its heart lies not in its spectacle, but in its people. In the ones who stumble through magic and war with bruised hearts and broken promises, doing their best to hold on.

So when I plan my conflicts, magical or mortal, I don’t begin with maps or power levels or ancient histories. I begin with the characters. With their wounds and their wants. And I try, as best I can, not to lose them in the storm.

Because the war may shape the world.
But it’s the people who shape the war.

The Shadow Rising A Turning Point in the Wheel

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There comes a moment in every long series where the world tilts slightly, where what was once a journey across landscapes becomes a passage into myth itself. For The Wheel of Time, that moment arrives in The Shadow Rising, the fourth volume in Robert Jordan’s vast and labyrinthine saga. It is here the tale begins to unfold on a truly epic scale, uncoiling threads of prophecy, heritage, and power that stretch far beyond the Emond’s Field beginnings we once knew.

A Novel of Expansions and Transformations

Unlike the tightly structured urgency of The Dragon Reborn, this book refuses haste. It broadens rather than barrels forward. Rand, now declared the Dragon Reborn, does not simply charge into battle. Instead, he walks into the heart of the Aiel Waste, into a past carved by blood and fire, and into a people whose history reshapes his own. Jordan uses the Aiel journey to expand his world in the most powerful sense, not by adding more, but by revealing depth. The Waste isn’t just a desert; it’s a crucible for a cultural philosophy built on honour, tradition, and hidden sorrow.

Meanwhile, Perrin returns to the Two Rivers in what remains, for me, one of the most emotionally grounded and satisfying arcs in the series. His struggle is heavy with consequence, defending his homeland, confronting loss, becoming a reluctant leader. It’s no grand adventure; it’s resistance. The quiet strength of Perrin’s arc holds the novel together when the other threads drift toward abstraction.

Mat, of course, is dragged forward by the Pattern with coin in hand and complaint on lip. Yet beneath the bravado, something is stirring. His gift or curse, begins to awaken. And with it, we catch glimpses of a man who will one day command entire armies, whether he likes it or not.

Women of Power and Subtle Shifts

Egwene, Nynaeve, and Elayne continue their arc through Tanchico and Tel’aran’rhiod. It is perhaps the portion of the book that divides readers most. At times, their chapters feel drawn out, yet they contain critical developments. The World of Dreams becomes more than a curiosity. It begins to whisper of control, danger, and deeper truths. Nynaeve’s confrontation with Moghedien is quietly devastating, a clash of raw strength and hidden terror. Jordan doesn’t always balance his multiple arcs evenly, but there is no question he gives the women in this story power, danger, and consequence.

The Great Unfolding

What makes The Shadow Rising remarkable is not a single battle or twist. It’s the slow, deliberate shift in the series’ soul. The world feels older. The scope feels wider. Every major character walks deeper into their identity, shaped less by choice and more by necessity. Prophecy is no longer something quoted by Aes Sedai in candlelit chambers, it lives now, in action and aftermath.

It’s also worth noting that Jordan’s prose here becomes more assured. His digressions are longer, yes, and he tests patience now and again with endless politicking and braid-tugging. Yet his command of tone, setting, and foreshadowing has sharpened. He is no longer just building a world, he’s weaving fate.

Final Thoughts

This isn’t the book I’d recommend to first-time fantasy readers. It demands investment. Yet for those already caught in the turning of the Wheel, The Shadow Rising marks a threshold crossed. From here, the story no longer simply follows characters, it chases legacies. Heroes don’t just act; they echo.

If you’ve ever wondered where The Wheel of Time truly begins to feel legendary, it’s here.

If you’d prefer a more informal deep-dive, with visual breakdowns and unscripted thoughts, I’ve also posted a video review of The Shadow Rising on my YouTube channel.

When Characters Refuse to Obey A Quiet Update from the Writing Desk

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There are days when the words arrive with purpose, unfolding like the tide, steady, inevitable, drawn by unseen moons I never named. And then there are days like this past week, where a single scene becomes something else entirely. Not broken, nor wrong, simply… changed. Unexpected. Alive in a way I had not planned.

I was rewriting a chapter for The Veil of Kings and Gods, one that should have followed the arc I had carefully woven. The notes were there, the pacing mapped, the motivations aligned. Simion was meant to speak. A single line. Firm, measured, final. A rejection. It would have been a turning point of sorts, the moment he chooses distance over duty.

And yet, as I reached that moment, he waited.

Not in defiance. He was simply still. Listening. Watching. And when the words came, they were not rejection, but understanding. A softness I had not intended entered the scene, subtle, unexpected, entirely right. It changed the shape of the moment. It changed him. And through him, the shape of what follows.

This is not the first time a character has shifted beneath my hands. Patrick once delayed a speech for two chapters because his silence held more weight than I had imagined. Elana once turned back when I thought she would walk away. Even Týrnan, who so often walks the edge of fire and certainty, veered off course once to grant mercy where I had written none.

These are not dramatic revisions. They are the quiet revolts, the ones that happen deep in the bones of the work. You do not always see them coming. They’re not betrayals of plan or plot. They are corrections of truth. A character, fully formed, will sometimes remind you that they are no longer yours to shape so easily.

So this is where I am. Still within the final stretch of the book. Still rewriting, refining, listening. Not rushing. Letting the weight of each word find its proper place. Some chapters arrive like stone. Others like river. All must settle before the storm.

Thank you for reading and for walking this strange, shifting path with me.

Until the next.

Prince Patrick: Duty Wears a Crown of Silence

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There are kings born with glory in their blood, and there are those who wear power like a wound.

Prince Patrick of Bremyra is no conqueror carved from legend. He is not the first son, nor the boldest. He did not march off with banners raised and swords drawn like his father and brothers. Instead, he was left behind, to rule in silence, to shoulder a realm not by destiny, but by circumstance.

When King Cedric departed on his expedition, taking with him Patrick’s elder brothers, Aric and Aiden, the third-born prince was not meant to lead. And yet, years have passed, and no word has returned from the expedition’s path. Now the court stirs with unease, and Patrick remains, a regent in all but name.

He governs with quiet endurance. His hands are stained not with blood, but with ink, the endless scrolls of diplomacy, tax levies, marriage negotiations, and royal petitions. Yet there is something deeper behind his golden hair and cool gaze. A weight. A weariness. A knowing look passed only between those who did not ask to carry the realm, but do so anyway.

In the quiet of the library, where the firelight reflects off old treaties and maps, Patrick does not play at king. He studies. He listens. He calculates not in ambition, but in caution. Around him, kingdoms bristle, Arvendral grows restless, Tsunamia watches with silent interest, and suitors press for alliances. Yet the prince offers no bold proclamations. Only silence. Measured decisions. The stillness of a man who understands the cost of speaking too soon.

He is not alone in his burden. His sister, Elana, moves like a shadow alongside him, fierce, articulate, and bound for marriage to secure Bremyra’s position. There is a shared understanding between them: the weight of expectation, the sacrifices they will not name aloud.

And then there is Simion, the magician now bound to Patrick’s court,once a kitchen boy in the same castle where Patrick now rules. A childhood thread, pulled taut by fate.

If Patrick sees more than he says, he does not show it. But one cannot walk long among wolves without learning how to bare their teeth.

He was never meant to wear the mantle of power. Yet power, like silence, often chooses those who do not crave it.

A Return to Midkemia Rereading The Magician

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

Some books never really leave you.

Even when they’re tucked on a shelf or buried behind newer titles, their stories linger. A sentence, a scene, a spell you didn’t quite understand the first time, it waits. And then one day, without planning to, you find yourself reaching for that book again.

This week, for what might be the fifth… or sixth time (I’ve honestly lost count), I picked up The Magician by Raymond E. Feist.

It wasn’t for research. It wasn’t for content. It wasn’t even because I had a review planned, though I probably will do one soon.

It was comfort. Familiar. Like slipping into an old cloak that still smells of cold air and campfires.

Not Just a Fantasy Classic, It’s a Personal One

I first read The Magician when I was much younger. I remember being drawn in by the idea of a world that felt so real, yet entirely imagined. There was something alive beneath the pages, something that stretched beyond just Pug’s journey. The kingdoms, the magic, the war between worlds, it planted a seed.

Years later, I can see just how much it shaped my own writing.

The novel I’m currently working on: The Veil of Kings and Gods, owes more than a little to that early inspiration. Not in structure or setting, but in feeling. In that desire to build something layered. Something with blood and dirt and ancient magic still echoing through the stones. Something with characters who don’t always say the right thing, who make mistakes, who grow.

Rereading it now, as someone building their own world and story, hits differently.

I see the gears turning. I notice choices I didn’t catch before, what Feist reveals and withholds. Where he lingers. Where he lets silence speak. And, maybe most of all, I see how much freedom there is in the early pages of a world you’ve only just started to map.

No Pressure, Just Pages

I’ll save the full review for another day. One where I can dig into the structure, the craft, and why this book still holds up decades later.

But for now, this reread has reminded me that sometimes, you don’t need to analyse a book to love it. You don’t need to annotate the margins or write notes on pacing. You just need to sit with it. Let it wash over you again.

Not every read needs to be productive. Some are just for the soul.

What I’m Thinking About Now

Maybe you have a book like that. One you return to when your own pages feel stuck. One that reminds you why you write or why you started writing.

If so, I’d love to hear what it is.

And if you’ve never read The Magician, maybe this is your sign to give it a go. Or to dust it off and re-enter Midkemia for a while.

There’s something magical about going back.

The Line We Rewrite: Why Writers Chase the Truth

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There’s a strange ritual writers go through, quietly, without fanfare. You’ll see us hunched over the same sentence, again and again. A dozen drafts. A dozen moods. One line that just won’t settle.

It’s not about being perfect.

Perfection is cold, clinical. What we’re chasing is something messier. Something truer.

Some days, I’ll write a paragraph and immediately feel it’s wrong. Not because the grammar’s off or the pacing is clumsy, but because it’s lying. Not in a factual way, but in tone, in the shape of the feeling. The line says what happened, but it doesn’t yet say what it meant.

And that’s what rewriting really is: not a polish, but a search.

A search for the shape of truth in fiction.

Writing, at its best, is honest. Even in fantasy, especially in fantasy, we owe the reader something sincere. We build our worlds out of dragons and dead empires, but the emotions are still borrowed from real life. A moment of doubt. A breath held too long. A wound that didn’t heal right.

That’s why we rewrite the same line. That’s why we stare at it in silence. We’re not trying to make it pretty. We’re trying to make it real.

The truth in writing rarely arrives in the first draft. It’s a whisper that grows louder the more you listen. And sometimes, all you can do is sit there, head in hands, blinking at the screen and try again.

One more version. One more breath.

Until the words finally stop pretending.

And the line, at last, becomes itself.