Besides liking to write, I also happen to like digging. I get strange enjoyment out of sinking holes in the ground that are deep enough to jump down inside. But the real reason that I enjoy digging is because it reminds me of mining.
Mining. Nobody really, really likes dirt. So much space occupied by dead organic matter and a smattering of hardened rocks that were probably uplifted from the lower crust over centuries. Once below the surface more than a few inches, very few people have an interest in that space. I have always wanted to delve out mines. Not just any mines, mind you (terrible puns!), but true mines. Mines and tunnels with doors and passages. Mines like the mines of Moria.
I have always wanted the same for my stories. Grand, epic, filled with crisp detail and ornate decorations, all bounded in a gigantic cohesion. Unfortunately, most of my stories have ended up like most of my mines. About three-feet deep with a dirty roof made of scrap wood and full of roots and spiders. I have nominally crawled through them to prove it can be done, but have never dug so deep that I wished to stay there for long.
