I just remembered that I have an unfinished fantasy novel sitting in my virtual sock drawer. I pulled it up, and behold!: the word count was over 104,000 (remember: unfinished.) I used to be a lot wordier with my projects when I was in my teens.
I wrote a big hunk of One Was Let to Slip Away in my mid-teens. Man, has my style changed since then.
If you would be so kind, read the following paragraph and tell me what author you think I was reading at the time of writing this:
“And if I made claim to boy on yonder bed, and spoke truth of him and yet his might, what would you do unto me? Had I stored myself away in a rabbit’s hole and covered myself with the cloaks of the ancient earth, as you have, would I then be called wise? You look upon me and see Iswei, the Wanderer, the Young-Hearted, the Wood King, the Last Fair of Men; yet I am a trinket to you—a mere mirror of the world’s youth. And indeed, mine days do not surpass yours, and the light in my eyes is yet waxing; but not even an elf can know in full certainty if the stream he is about to partake of is pure or poisoned. In likeness, you know not my thoughts and my dealings with the half-creature; so I beg fervently: do not hinder me and do not interrupt my grieving.”