We walked in silence for several blocks, my feet knowing the way back without my having to think about it. Past the pawnshop and the Bagel Café, Fiddler’s Green Fine Irish Gifts and the Opera Alley where the buskers performed. A glass player sat there tonight, perched behind a table full of elegant crystal, his fingers nimbly plying his trade. It was late enough that most of the shops were closed, but we moved through the waning crowds without issue, the vibrato of the glass music echoing eerily between the buildings as we walked. The thing about writing fantasy, particularly urban fantasy, is that parts of it have to be rooted in reality – if only to give the reader something to anchor to. Something about having a mental base of operations makes it easier to accept the fantasy elements, I think. I will admit when I wrote BoD I didn’t… Read more