Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

I’m not a thief. I prefer to be called a ‘kleptomaniacal instrumental-free bardlike entertainer’–it’s much more befitting to my status as the best nonsinging bard this world’s ever seen. Back home, just about everybody agreed that the only place for a dashing, talented bloke like me was the bardic college–they even took up a collection to pay my way. You’d think that after all the trampled flowers, broken gates and, uh, missing pocketbooks that they’d be a little less generous, but hey, they’re a good sort, and know godlike talent when they see it.

Only problem was, the hacks at the O’Doullgh college didn’t agree. They had the nerve to tell me that my kind weren’t allowed, and even called the guard when I did an unsolicited audition under their bedroom windows that night! Turns out my singing voice is the kind of stuff that scares cats and small children, but so what? The main job of any good bard is to sweep women off their feet…who needs singing for that?

So, I was forced to live in the city off the contents of, uh, lost purses and change, until I happened to accidentally thrust my hand into Nyla’s pocket. She was immediately overcome by my devilish charm and ravishing good looks, and what’s more, she was a last year student at the bardic college! She, being the nice lass that she is, agreed to tutor me in the bardic arts (not singing, though–no amount of the milk of human kindness can tame the cat in heat of my voice). And, after her graduation, we joined an acting company, and traveled sharing out gifts with the masses–for a fee, of course.

“The hero of my fantasy story has to have a tragic background,” said Ellis. “I was thinking orphan. Raised by the elves but never truly one of the elves.”

“Please,” Mickey snorted. “That one’s written in gold ink on page one of the Big Book of Cliches.”

“Well, how about an exile? A terrible crime he didn’t commit–or did he?–has led his own people to drive him off, and he finds refuge with the elves after saving one of their own, eventually living among them as one of them.”

“Yes, that’s certainly nothing like the Rangers in Tolkien,” said Mickey. “Weren’t you the one who said ‘if all fantasy authors were going to do was rewrite LOTR, they were better off writing stereo instructions?'”

“Fine then,” Ellis shouted, slamming his notebook down. “Let’s hear your brilliant hero backstory, Mr. Critic!”

“Hero is the incarnate form of the tears of a dead god, with the power to heal the world or destroy it.” Mickey mimed an NBA all-star dunk. “Swish!”