The Ink Chapel

I’m days away from graduating with a Creative Writing degree and apparently my brain interpreted that as:

“Excellent. Let’s immediately attempt one of the most complicated genres imaginable.”

Naturally.

Because writing a fantasy novel sounded like a perfectly reasonable way to relax.

Spoiler alert: it is not relaxing.

It is, however, incredibly fun.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you.

I genuinely thought fantasy writers just… made things up.

“Oh, there’s a mountain.”

Cool.

“Oh, there’s a forest.”

Great.

“Throw in a dragon.”

Done.

That is absolutely not how this works.

Within forty-eight hours I had somehow fallen down an internet rabbit hole researching medieval hunting laws.

Not because I suddenly developed a passion for historical legislation.

Because I needed to know whether someone could legally hunt a deer in winter.

This is my life now.

Did you know there are different names for deer depending on their age and whether they’re male or female?

I do.

Against my own will.

Then I discovered that deer don’t all behave the same depending on the season.

Fantastic.

Now I have to know what they’re doing in winter.

Which somehow led me into researching forests.

Because apparently you can’t just write,

“They walked through some trees.”

No.

Now I’m reading about native forests, moss, rainfall, mud, birds, and what kind of ferns would actually grow somewhere.

I have become the world’s least qualified forest ranger.

The worst part?

I’m enjoying every second of it.

I also had this completely unrealistic expectation that writers sit down and know exactly what’s going to happen.

Cute.

Turns out my experience has been more like…

Me:

“I know exactly where this scene is going.”

Also me, twenty minutes later:

“…well that’s not what I expected.”

It’s honestly rude.

I’m the one writing it.

Why am I the last person to know what’s happening?

I’ve reached the point where I’m arguing with imaginary people.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“But you would never say that.”

“Why are you making my life difficult?”

Meanwhile these imaginary people continue doing whatever they want.

Very inconsiderate of them.

Another thing I wasn’t prepared for?

How attached you become to details that no reader will probably ever notice.

I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at maps.

Not because I’m lost.

Because one river looked wrong.

One.

River.

Do you know how many normal people have spent an hour moving a fictional river a little farther to the left?

Probably zero.

Writers?

Apparently all of them.

And don’t even get me started on names.

You think naming one character is difficult?

Try naming mountains.

Cities.

Forests.

Rivers.

Villages.

Then making sure none of them accidentally sound like a medication with side effects that include dizziness and dry mouth.

The amount of time I’ve spent saying fictional words out loud to see if they sound cool should honestly concern somebody.

Then came worldbuilding.

I made the mistake of thinking that meant making a map.

No.

Worldbuilding apparently means asking questions nobody warned me about.

How do people eat during winter?

What do they trade?

How long does it take to travel somewhere on horseback?

Would people build near rivers or avoid them?

What birds live there?

What grows naturally?

Would this road even exist?

At some point I stopped creating a fantasy world and accidentally enrolled myself in several completely unrelated history and ecology classes.

The funny thing is, I haven’t even written very much yet.

I’ve written one scene.

One.

That’s it.

Everything else has been me wandering through research, making notes, deleting notes, renaming places, questioning my own sanity, and somehow ending up with seventeen new questions every time I answer one.

Yet I’m completely hooked.

The strangest part is that I already want to read the book.

Which is incredibly inconvenient because it doesn’t exist yet.

I keep thinking,

“I wonder what happens next…”

Then I remember…

I’m the one who’s supposed to figure that out.

No pressure.

So if you’ve ever wondered what writing a fantasy novel looks like from the inside, it’s less “brilliant author gracefully crafting literature” and more “grown adult spending an hour researching deer while forgetting to eat lunch.”

It’s opening twenty browser tabs because one tiny detail led to another question.

It’s laughing because you’ve somehow become emotionally invested in a map.

It’s realizing you’ve spent half the afternoon arguing with fictional people who refuse to cooperate.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade it.

Because somewhere between the research rabbit holes, the rewritten notes, the maps, the late-night ideas, and the endless cups of tea…

a world slowly starts appearing.

Not all at once.

One question at a time.

One scene at a time.

One wonderfully ridiculous rabbit hole at a time.

If this is what writing a fantasy novel is like…

I completely understand why writers keep doing it.

© 2026 The Ink Chapel. All Rights Reserved.

Footnote: Current browser tabs include deer, moss, rivers, forests, weather patterns, and approximately seventeen questions that started with, “Wait… would that actually happen?” Writing is weird.