Books and Affiliated

Changing Worlds

On one side lies Fantasy, and the other Legacy

When I finish writing a book, there’s such a rush of relief to finally be done with a project. I usually take some time off, give myself a vacation, and ignore the Muse’s insistent prodding to begin again. But now that I have taken publishing seriously and am building my craft, there’s another avenue I like to take when finishing a writing project. I edit.

I have a number of finished products waiting on the shelf for their chance to shine. I have them lined up in the order they will be published. With Sir Ivan’s Train, I’m waiting to hear back from my editor for the first book, and now that I’ve finished the second book, I need to focus on something else until I’m ready to edit Sir Ivan’s Train. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present for 2017 Legacy of the Wolf Wind. Yeah, sorry, you won’t be able to read it for two years yet.

Changing worlds is a refreshing activity for writers. You really don’t want to edit something fresh off the writer’s block. You’re going to miss more than you realize and won’t be able to do it justice. My “self-proclaimed professional opinion” is to drop it like a hot potato and dig in your closet for something old, something new, or something fresh! Legacy of the Wolf Wind is a strong shift from Sir Ivan’s Train. I neglected the modern world entirely to create a fully immersed land filled with myth, legend, and legacy original to this world alone. I actually received this story from a dream I had…long ago. It was strange…

I think you’ll really enjoy this story. It is surrounded in mystery and intrigue, and each character harbors their own secrets. In this world, the past hunts the present, and when the winds of change blow in, there’s no stopping them.

Thank you for reading.

This has been,

Fanny T. Crispin (aka FanTC)


-Beep Beep Boop-

That feels like my life right now. The silly little WordPress page-loading “sounds” describes my present very well. I’m waiting.

I’m waiting for my editor.

I’m waiting for my meeting with my pastor.

I’m waiting for my gentleman friend’s letter (because we’re both old school and I really like that about him).

I’m waiting for the 5 o’clock mark to go home.

I’m waiting for Saturday so I can go to the Bristol Renaissance Faire (again).

I’m waiting for a lot of things.

I have reached a very comfortable stage in my life where work is good, family is good, the cat-monster-under-my-bed is good, and life is generally good. But I’m fickle. I like change. I like change when it moves in my favor, and hate it when it moves against me. So in all honesty, this waiting period should be a good thing. The problem is, I never know what to do with my hands.

There’s something very important that your parents and adult mentors don’t tell you when you’re a kid–you’re going to be waiting for a lot of things. They always tell you life goes by fast, you’re nothing but a mist in the wind, a grass of the fields, and all this will pass away. But sometimes you get caught in limbo and you twiddle your thumbs wondering what to do with the time given to you. So you wait.

-Beep beep boop-

A lot of wise people will tell you to chase after your dreams, but you can only run so far before your legs collapse and your windpipe can’t digest enough air and all you want is a tall glass of water. I’m not saying this waiting is a bad thing. I just don’t know what to do with myself. I go to work. I come home. I put off dishes and play Terraria to pass time. Then I go to bed. When I wake up, I start the day over. I wonder what my editor is scribbling with his Red Pen of Madness. I wonder what my gentleman friend is thinking about worlds away. I wonder if I can skip out of church and jobs to spend every weekend at the Renaissance Faire until I disappear into the beautiful tapestry of fantasy.

-Beep beep boop-

Something is loading. I can feel it. I can feel the shift in the winds.

I was talking to a friend the other day. She has a natural gift for reading people. I read books. She reads people. And she’s 99.9% right about what she reads. She read that the church–our church–is dying. That our leaders are closing their ears and eyes to the needs of the congregation. She read that all our friends are leaving one by one because the church is not growing. She read that the Spirit is not moving, that the old people who have been there forever aren’t doing their part, that the new people are too pushy with their agendas, and that everyone has an agenda and no one is working together.

That’s not a good read. The church is dying. No one wants to hear those words, but unfortunately it’s true. I can see it now that she’s brought it to my attention. It worries me. Part of me says I can weather out the storm and come out the other side to a brighter, Spirit filled church. Part of me says 19 years is long enough and nothing has changed or will ever change.

Maybe it’s finally time for me to move on. I wonder that sometimes. When is it my turn to move? I’ve been in the same town, same church, same community for most of my life, so when do I get to move? The trouble is, I’m loyal to a fault. I really am. Do you know the only reason I’m still at the church is because I have two–count them, two–friends still there? That’s it. What happens when one decides to finally leave? Do I leave the other behind and go my own way, too?

As you can see, this is really troubling me. I won’t talk about it, but I’ll write about it. Most of you don’t know me. You don’t know my church.

-Beep beep boop-

Well, I guess I’ll wait for this page to load and see what’s on the other side. Restless feet, you’re just going to have to sit this one out.

This has been,

Fanny T Crispin


Have I Found Neverland?

It began last year. I remember it vividly clear–it was my first time attending a full scale Renaissance Faire.

It was like walking onto the set of a movie…while the movie was playing.

My two friends dragged me along on this silly escapade of theirs that they had been talking about for years. They usually went once a year as a family, and after much deliberation, I finally caved to their whims. So one Sunday afternoon, we drove out to Kenosha, WI, dressed in silliness and garb I normally would not have sported (save for Halloween). The parking lot was a field of grass. Bumpy, lumpy ground. We exited the vehicle and I stared up at the entrance wall made entirely out of hewn logs. Banners streamed from the turrets, the grand welcome greeted us. In the far off distance, hidden behind that barricade, came a roar–it wasn’t the sound of screams from a thrilling ride at a general State fair, it was more like a cheer, voices rising in crecendo.


We entered this peculiar place, kicking up dust and stones–there was not a lick of pavement to be found. Immediately, we were surrounded by a throng of the most unusual specimens. There were peasants and nobles, witches and wizards, fairies galore, and every creature and being from myth and lore. We weren’t the only ones dressed up. The garb ranged from light accessories to full blown costumes.

I had never experienced anything like this before. It truly astounded my imagination. For years I escaped inside books, later to begin writing my own tales of adventure and fantasy, but now I had found a place where I could live the dream. I was at once a Wendy experiencing her first Neverland visit as well as a Peter Pan who felt as if he had never left–as if I had always belonged.

The true magic was in the cast members–actors devoted to their craft, embodying a character, an image, and playing it out so well you almost forgot the face behind the mask. All the games were old Renaissance games (throwing rotten tomatoes at unlucky citizens), and the rides were constructed of wood and propelled by human power. All the venders and crafters spoke the old Renaissance English, doffing hats and bowing low in respect. It was marvelous.


So now we’re at this year. Last year I went twice. This year by the time Labor Day weekend is over, I’ll have gone eight times. Next year? We’ll see what happens next year.

When you find something that brings you joy–honest, harmless joy–why, I see no reason for you not to continue.


This has been,

The whimsical and wandering

Fanny T Crispin