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>
Hi! How are you? I'm Ryver. Here's a little bit about me:
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 love getting lost in my thoughts.
I wrote my first short story when I was 7. I started writing 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 ten years old. They weren’t very good and they haven’t been published, but it was good practice.
Looking back, those experiences seem like they happened an eternity ago. As you read this, I have already released a four-book fantasy series! Ten-year-old me would be proud. (P.S. You can check the series out here).
I am forever grateful that I had the opportunities and resources I have to write these books and share them with the world. I love every email I receive from my subscribers, and every kind word of support as I navigate the ups and downs of self-publishing.
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!). If I'm missing a story there that you'd like to read, shoot me an email and I'll give it a quick update. (It's very likely that I've forgotten quite a few of them).
Okey dokes! That’s just about it.
“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