Interview with Author Alexzander Christion


Crafted and trained in South Florida, Alexzander grew up in sunshine, nice weather, and bad schools. Son of a professional kickboxer and a church choir director, Alexzander had a happy eclectic childhood. A student and lover of music, art, and all things martial, he is a military veteran and an avid anime, comic book, movie, TV, and video game nerd. He received his degree in Film & Video Production, as well as Communications in Frederick, Maryland, where he lives with his wife and three children.

What inspired your world building process? 
I think the trope of making magic ancient, secretive, and rare is outdated. I think anything that exists will eventually find its way to the black market and then the public at large. In my world, magic is as prevalent as electronic technology is in the real world. Just like there is a difference between what the rich and the poor have, the governments and civilians- spells are segregated in my world and ruthlessly enforced. Once I made this decision everything else was just finding the thousands of ways average people would use a levitate spell.  

Who are you writing for and why? 
This is actually the dedication in my book! I write for every nerd like me who repeatedly left the bookstore empty handed. I write books for people who don’t like books. My stories read more like oral campfire tales or action movies. I figure if I’m searching and not finding there has to be others and hopefully enough of us to make a living. 

What do you do to recharge your creative energy? 
I walk away from words. Movies, TV, plays, and video games keep my creativity fueled without feeling like work. Sometimes I find things that never would have crossed my mind but most often I look at what was done and how I would have done it differently and then I’m ready to write again. 

What reactions do you hope to inspire in others? 
I hope to give others the mind altering wanderlust that R.A.Salvatore, Patrick Rothfuss, and Michael J. Sullivan gave me. I remember putting those books down and staring at the wall thinking: I didn’t know books could do that!! I try to subvert tropes, bring a touch of realistic reaction to the fantastic and put something on paper never before seen. Do I always succeed? No lol. But aiming at that goal keeps it as fun for me as the reader. 

Where is your writing taking you? 
I have no idea how to answer this. I’d love to go full time, maybe get to meet some of my heroes but for now my focus is getting in the chair and putting words on the page.  


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The Moon

 


My cave
Is dark
And underground.
I sink
Down deep
And circle ’round.
It’s cold
And wet
And free of sound.
The secrets
Here
Cannot be found.

Sometimes I want to feel I’m free,

So I swim out into the sea

And search for somewhere I can be

That doesn’t feel so hard to me.

 

I sway within the current then

Swim back along the sand and when

I look up at the waves, 

There is

A stream of color there. 

 

I rise.

Who knows what that could be,

Some angel 

Looking down at me,

A call

So old it wants to see

What creature

Hears 

Its lonely plea.

 

I’m here

To listen to his tune 

And finally,

I see the moon.

Such beauty

That it feels brand new.

I know

There’s something I can do.

 

This light is something I can see.

It somehow teaches me to breathe.

And up here close, the land is soft

And I can share my lonely thoughts.

 

High

Up in the sky

I see

These diamonds

Shining bright for me.

There’s air

And hope

And mystery,

A mist

So warm,

How can it be 

That I would find

A creature who

Can speak to

My artistic mood,

And somehow

He 

Turns on the moon.

I wish I could

Surround him soon,

But I sink through

The colors all,

Down where I

Don’t breathe 

at all.

I long 

To hear

His lonely call

And wish

I could 

Feel warm 
and soft.   


Unseen



Somewhere there’s a tapestry 
Made from all that’s happening. 
Every day I add a string 
That’s woven through a silver ring. 
The color, I can’t really see, 
Even though it came from me. 
Faithfully with it I weave 
Another row, then add a bead. 

When morning comes, I softly sigh, 
Reflect upon my thready life, 
And think about patterns gone by, 
And how the knitting made me cry. 
I mourn the colors in the night, 
Wonder why I have no sight. 
Thoughts forlorn, I long for light. 
If only sadness made it bright. 

Another string will then appear 
Just as I can feel the fear 
Of running out as loose ends near 
Or having nothing left in here. 
My heart will blindly weave this prayer, 
But I won’t see an image there, 
’Til with a whisper in my ear, 
I hear, “Time to wake up, my dear.”