Writing, not just novels but short stories, flash fiction, even blog posts, has become more enjoyable to me than watching TV. More than movies. Sometimes, even more than reading.
Don’t get me wrong, I still love a good story in any form. But there’s something different about sitting down with a blank page. Something alive. It’s not passive, it’s creation. Every sentence, every scene, is something I get to build. To breathe life into.
It’s strange, isn’t it? We spend so much of our lives consuming stories, but when you start creating them, time shifts. You stop watching from the outside and begin shaping the inside, the heartbeat of the world you’re building.
And it’s not just about finishing something. It’s about the act itself, the quiet joy of shaping a world from nothing, of following a character you didn’t plan to meet, of reaching a line and thinking, Ah. That one was honest.
Writing has become my pause in the noise, a place where time disappears, yet I feel more present than anywhere else. It’s where I find myself again.
So I wonder, does anyone else feel this? Has writing ever felt more fulfilling than bingeing a series? More grounding than scrolling through a feed?
If so, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Because for me, writing isn’t just a pastime anymore. It’s where life slows down just enough for meaning to take shape.
Before my epic fantasy novel The Veil of Kings and Gods releases, I wanted to open a small window into the world of Ældorra, a world of stone kingdoms, fading gods, and myths that refuse to die.
Each short story I write is its own world in miniature. They don’t rely on the main novel, yet every one of them echoes it, a fragment of history, a lost prayer, or a legend that shaped the lands my characters now walk. Some are quiet and personal; others burn with the power of the divine. Together, they breathe life into Ældorra in a way that maps and lore pages never could.
Writing these stories is more than worldbuilding, it’s a way of feeling the world I’ve spent years creating. When I step into a new tale, I discover the texture of the world again: the smell of rain on stone, the flicker of temple light, the forgotten names carved into the ruins.
These short stories aren’t just for readers waiting for the novel, they’re for anyone who loves myth, emotion, and the quiet moments that make a fantasy world feel alive.
You’ll soon be able to explore them as ebooks, see the artwork behind them, and even collect the prints.
Welcome to Ældorra. The gods don’t stay silent forever.
There’s a strange kind of silence that follows uploading something into the void.
You spend days crafting a video or refining a chapter. You rewrite a line fourteen times until it stops sounding like bad theatre. You export, upload, tweak the thumbnail, write a caption that doesn’t sound desperate, and finally, finally, you press “Publish.”
And then… nothing.
At least, not right away. Maybe a view or two trickles in. A quiet like. You start questioning everything, your voice, your tone, your hair in that shot, whether this story was worth the time it took to write.
But then it happens. Someone, somewhere, leaves a comment that says:
“I want to read this.”
Five words. That’s it. No in-depth critique, no elaborate praise. Just a quiet little statement from a stranger who paused long enough to want more.
And that changed my entire day.
Not because it went viral. Not because I gained a hundred new followers or sold a book. But because it reminded me that the story I’m telling, the one I’ve dragged through sleepless nights, multiple rewrites, and far too many cups of tea, is reaching someone.
That’s the win.
It’s easy to talk about milestones and big launches. But for many writers, especially those still building something from the ground up, it’s the small, often invisible victories that keep the wheels turning.
So if you’re out there, watching someone’s book video or reading a blog post about a novel that hasn’t even launched yet, don’t underestimate what a simple comment can do.
To whoever left that message: thank you. You may not remember it, but I do.
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.
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.
There was a moment, years ago, when I finished reading a fantasy book and set it down with that lingering ache only good stories leave behind. But this time, something different stirred. I remember thinking, I love this world… but I would have done the magic differently.
That thought, quiet but persistent, was the spark that began this journey.
A Quiet Beginning
I’ve always loved stories. I was sketching characters and scribbling in notebooks before I knew what genre even meant. For me, storytelling wasn’t about ambition. It wasn’t about publishing or platforms or careers.
It was something I did because I loved the word-building and the idea of losing myself in my fantasies.
Writing, like painting, was my calm space in a world that often felt too loud.
The Question That Wouldn’t Let Go
Years later, I read a fantasy series that changed something in me. I won’t name it, but I remember wishing that the magic system worked differently. I wanted to see a kind of magic that wasn’t spoken or shouted, but silent. What if casting spells required nothing but will and cost? What if power came from absence, not control?
That question sat with me. And over time, it grew.
It became the foundation for The Veil of Kings and Gods.
Years of Silence and Sparks
Writing this novel wasn’t quick, and it certainly wasn’t easy. Life was full, sometimes too full. Jobs, exhaustion, raising a newborn, moments of doubt. There were months where I barely touched the manuscript… and others where I couldn’t stop.
I rewrote chapters. Deleted scenes. Rethought characters. Rebuilt the entire world from scratch. But I never stopped, because the story wouldn’t let me go.
What began as a simple idea, a magician who doesn’t speak, turned into something far bigger. A world where gods have gone silent. Where prophecy falters. Where fate rewrites itself.
What This Story Truly Is
I won’t spoil too much, but here’s the heart of it:
The Veil of Kings and Gods is set in Ældorra, a fractured realm of forgotten empires and divine silence. The old god-chosen magicians are gone. The demon they once sealed away is stirring again.
At the centre is Simion, a quiet magician who doesn’t cast spells the way others do. He doesn’t speak incantations. He doesn’t crave power. But he’s the one who will break the Spiral and reshape prophecy.
There’s a prince scarred by loyalty and forbidden sexual preference.
A noble sister caught between obedience and rebellion.
Secret orders. Collapsing kingdoms. Ancient ruins that whisper truths long buried.
And above it all, the Spiral, a symbol that marks not just fate, but the collapse and rebirth of magic itself.
Why Now?
Because I stopped waiting.
For years I told myself the same things: “When life settles down… when I’ve got more time… when it’s perfect.” But none of that ever came.
So I’ve decided to start where I am.
I’m sharing this novel. I’m building this world aloud. Not because I believe I’m the next great fantasy author, but because I believe this story matters. And maybe… it will matter to someone else too.
Watch the Video
If you’d like to hear the more personal version of this journey, I recorded a video where I speak directly about why I wrote this book, how long it’s taken, and what’s still to come. You can watch it below:
Join Me
If this world sounds like something you’d like to explore, you’re in the right place.
I’ll be sharing lore, character art, short stories, and behind-the-scenes posts as I bring The Veil of Kings and Gods to life. You can follow the blog or subscribe to the YouTube channel.
This is just the beginning and I’m glad you’re here.
Simon J. Phillips 