John Archer lives high in the mountains, with his brilliant daughter and his lovely wife and her very gracious parents. He spends quite a bit of time in his study where he writes and draws and builds and reads and learns. He has a job where he gets to explain things all day to children who need a little extra help. He always has new stories and games, and he always tries to share the words that people need wherever they are at the moment. You are cordially invited to visit archerstudios.me, where he hopes you will find something that will make you happy.
John has always been fascinated by games, stories, and other art. After reading 'Bridge to Terabithia' as a child, and discovering that stories could do that to people, he knew that he had to learn how. In the years since he has studied books, film, video games, board games, rpg's, comics, web fiction, visual art, and other forms of magic to learn how they function and the ways in which they are all the same thing.
Along the way, John has been inspired in very different ways by many different things. Silent Hill taught him how art could create a place for people to explore the feelings that hurt them. The Phantom Tollbooth taught him that meeting ideas could be very much like meeting people or places. Fate taught him that games could be made out of the shape of stories. The Dresden Files taught him that the world is often shaped like monsters and that conviction in doing the right thing can defeat every one of them. Speaker for the Dead taught him how to care about people who aren't like the people we already care about, and Orson Scott Card taught him that not everyone believes in that even if they tell stories about it.
More than anything, John Archer believes that ideas are magic, because they are words that make things happen. And that the best magic makes the world better, even if only because it makes it easier for people to bear it.
Your partner came back from the dead after being missing for decades. Every one of their friends who they went with ended up dying a horrible death.
Now, somehow, their entire mental health is based on the continued life and happiness of this fairground goldfish that they picked up.
Neither of you know the first thing about how to care for even a healthy fish. This fish has been poorly cared for, has multiple diseases and the person who handed it over explicitly didn't expect it to live nearly as long as it already has.
You're frantically googling how to set up a fish tank, where to buy fish food, can you even take a fish to the vet? Your partner wants you to know that they're happy they made it home and survived their horrific ordeal, but also that if anything happens to the fish then they're going to kill everyone on this planet and then themself.
You're honestly wondering if you're even helping the fish, or just prolonging its suffering, but your partner will only accept medical help for their many injuries or engage in basic self-care once they're confident that the fish is being looked after.
So you get a tank. You set up a filter and all that stuff. You learn way more than you ever wanted to know about water temperature and ph and nitrate levels. The fish is safe. You start to develop some affection for the little guy. Your partner begins to recover. The fish begins to recover.
Which is when you learn that in its 'healthy' state, the fish regularly refuses to sleep when tired, keeps begging for food that is obviously unhealthy for it (and struggling to eat the food that you do provide because “it tastes gross”), and continually tries to persuade your partner to take it out of its nice safe tank so it can go explore the wonderful world of Outside, where the slightest mishap will kill it instantly.
Your name is Adrian, and you kind of wants to strangle this fucking fish, statement.
I have no idea if this correlates with how eridians actually work, but the idea of a gigant eridian that is extremely young compared to everyone else (except Grace) was just so funny to me.
Every day that goes by I become more certain that the classical Romans were objectively correct that rhetoric is as essential to education as mathematics or history. Not so that the student can convince others, but that they will know when and how others are trying to convince them.
Just learned this absolutely delightful bit of etymology:
During the 15th century, the English had an endearing practice of granting common human names to the birds that lived among them. Virtually every bird in that era had a name, and most of them, like Will Wagtail and Philip Sparrow have been long forgotten. Polly Parrot has stuck around, and Tom Tit and Jenny Wren, personable companions of the English countryside, are names still sometimes found in children’s rhymes.
Other human names, however, have been incorporated so durably into the common names that still grace birds as to almost entirely obscure their origin. The Magpie, a loquacious black and white bird with a penchant for snatching shiny objects, once bore the simple name “pie,” probably coming from its Roman name, “pica.” The English named these birds Margaret, which was then abbreviated to Maggie, and finally left at Mag Pie. The vocal, crow-like bird called Jackdaw was also once just a “daw” named “Jack.”
The English also gave their ubiquitous and beloved orange-bellied, orb-shaped, wren-sized bird a human name. The first recorded Anglo-Saxon name for the Eurasian Robin was ruddoc, meaning “little red one.” By the medieval period, its name evolved to redbreast (the more accurate term orange only entered the English language when the fruit of the same name reached Great Britain in the 16th century). The English chose the satisfyingly alliterative name Robert for the redbreast, which they then changed to the popular Tudor nickname Robin. Soon enough, the name Robin Redbreast became so identified with the bird that Redbreast was dropped because it seemed so redundant.
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