[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”3.0.47″][et_pb_row _builder_version=”3.0.48″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”3.6″ parallax=”off” parallax_method=”on”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.9″]I don’t talk about my books a lot. I don’t even talk about myself a lot. I’m one of those “extroverted introverts” – people who look like they love being around other people, but when the party’s over, we run into caves and don’t come out for half a year afterward and you realize you don’t know anything more about us than you did when you met us. But seriously, I can’t escape the fact that the only reason the six of you are here (or rather, five out of the six of you–Hi mom!) is for the damn books.
I’ll be honest with you–there is a metric fuckton of worldbuilding stuff that never makes it into the books. I love worldbuilding like other people love air conditioning in summer and heat in winter. But I’m nervous about sharing it because it feels incomplete to me–like parading around in my underwear. In fact, I think I’d rather parade around in my underwear. I’ve got alibis for all my physical imperfections. I don’t have excuses for why the planet of Landfall’s mid-levels are the best places to get food from carts and find funky cafes even if the atmosphere’s starting to become harder to breathe and easier to chew.
But it’s a good sign that if I’m uncomfortable doing it, or if I’m avoiding it, it’s probably a thing that I need to do.