Theron Lysandros author

 Some days, writing hurts — Not because of what you're trying to say, but because your body simply won’t follow. It’s been two days now. Two days where the weight of my own body crushes every attempt at motivation, every spark of creativity. The pills make everything slower, heavier. My mind is too fogged to chase new stories. I move through daily tasks like a machine set to low power — not living them, just executing. And yet, I type this. Slowly. Each key is heavier than the last. I’m writing this not to complain, but to remember: this is part of it too. The days when the words won’t come, when the stories hide, when being human takes precedence over being a writer. I hope this fog lifts soon. I hope the stories come back. Until then, I wait — quietly, and a little heavier.

When I finished The Crystal Debt , it felt like I’d poured not just a story onto the page, but an entire world of wounds, lost names, and the weight of memory. It’s a novel obsessed with one question: what happens when power isn’t simply inherited, but stolen—or even forgotten? For months, I lived among ashes and crystals, haunted by that tension between identity and oblivion. Reading it now, I see that what I most wanted to convey was uncertainty—the push and pull between the self and all the echoes that came before. The characters (Kaien, Löez, Narel…) aren’t just mages or wanderers; they’re fragments of memory fighting not to disappear. The central conflict isn’t good vs. evil, but the right to remember—and to choose what part of the past gets to define us. But not everything turned out as I hoped. With some distance, I can see several areas where I would have done things differently: Narrative pacing: The novel can move heavily at times, especially in the first half. Out of f...

Today I went through another long episode of depersonalization—the kind where you feel like you’re just a spectator in your own body. It’s not as frightening as it sounds: it’s simply my “other self” taking over, staring at a single spot with its own thoughts, while the conscious part of me tries to break through. It sounds more dramatic than it really is; it’s nothing like what you see in movies like Split (and I doubt it’s even close). What I’m getting at is that, when I reread my books, sometimes there are passages that don’t feel familiar—sections where I can’t remember exactly when I wrote them, or if it was, somehow, my “other self” who did the typing. It happens especially during those moments when the writing just flows: the story, the plot, the characters, the whole world is clear in my mind… but I’m never quite sure which version of me is putting those ideas on the page. I’ve been thinking about this for days. What if that other part of me has ruined my books? What if it w...