Ryver Knight is a YA Fantasy author from Ontario, Canada. When she’s not studying alchemy with goblins or drinking tea with elves, you can find her crafting nonsensical stories in her writing cave.0>
I’m passionate about literature, I find immense joy in music, I’m way too addicted to sugar, I’m super into science, and I think way too much about the most useless things.
I wrote my first short story when I was 7. I started writing more and more stories, and submitted some to my local library’s children short story competition.
And I won!
That was an incredibly empowering experience, especially with the support I got from my parents.
I went on to write my first two books (novellas/novellettes, as they were 20,000 words each) when I was 10 years old. They weren’t very good and they haven’t been published, but it was good practice.
As you read this, I have just released a four-book fantasy series. You can check the series out here.
I’m also a Medium writer (@ryverknight). The stories are free for the first three days they’re published before getting put up behind Medium’s paywall.
After those three days, if you’re not a Medium member you can read my work at my blog here at ryverknight.com (that’s accessible to everyone!). On my blog here, I also write book reviews and give updates to how I’m progressing with my books (reading and writing).
Okey dokes! That’s just about it.
If you’d like to connect, you can do so on Instagram, Facebook, Goodreads (where I also post book reviews) or on my contact page.
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams.
It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth."
― George R.R. Martin