The
hall of Silver Age Books is lofty and grand, ornate in some corners, curiously
unfinished in others. Off to one side you might see a scurrying rodent,
looking for an abandoned manuscript to nibble on, in another corner there is a
half-made fortress of words. Look! Over there, a gargantuan bumblebee sits
numbly at a desk, chained to it, forced to hum music from Studio Ghibli movies
for the pleasure of the production staff.
And that size allows us room for many, many authors, of all stripes. Some
have passed through but once; others return, crestfallen, again and again, as
they find naught but failure in the world outside. You can read about them
here.
