About Taggart Rehnn

One day, unable to fully comprehend some of the inner workings of the real world, I began writing novels.

Why, all things, novels? Possibly, because that day I needed teleportation, none was available, and writing fiction was the closest I could get to it.

However exhilarating the voyages of discovery writing might take us on, they come at a cost: Once we give voices to beings who live somewhere in the Terra Incognita between our ears, they shamelessly start whispering things to us, when we dream or daydream or while we're feeding the cat—and, if we start listening to them, the quest is on.

The problem then becomes: when creatures and situations that hatch in our head are bonafide mavericks dwelling in exotic realms, who makes the rules?

Unconventional characters, with unusual lives and quirks and needs and wants and agendas, can take us exploring untrammelled and unmarked roads, leading to places we weren’t prepared to visit—but they are who they are, and they do as they please.

Though a warrior might have moments of tenderness, all in all, he or she must chop some heads off, win some battles, rescue someone, find some ring, or sword, or monster, or enemy base, lead some armies somewhere, overcoming impossible odds. Let instead a warrior be too fragile for too long, or too forgiving, or too analytic, and the traditional roof caves in.

Spies break hearts, and vaults, and jawbones. They shoot everyone, wear tuxedos or gala dresses, and drive luxury sport cars on sidewalks as if they were in an F1-circuit.

Vampires live in castles, neatly tucked in coffins. They run away from garlic, and crosses, and holy water, require an R.S.V.P. to enter homes and, once invited, stick their fangs in as many necks as they can.

The muscular hero is a man who falls in love with the smart belle and saves her from the evil soulless beast.

Reverse some roles there, and eyebrows, shaven or unshorn, shall quickly be raised and lowered so fast they may almost look ready to take flight in panic.

What happens if, instead, vampires that travel through space-time can become spies and make croissants? Or, if a soldier repeatedly decorated for his bravery, can be badass but also fall in love with another decorated soldier? What happens when the bad are really good—not just good at being bad—if one bothers to observe them from a wider perspective or in a different context? What happens when a new type of hybrid, intersectional, genre is born and the writer, who went exploring that Terra Incognita, realizes—alas, too late—that all these unconventional beings, in unconventional settings, have taken a life of their own and started springing from his mind like vines in a jungle after the rain?

By then, the author will either try to escape or, conscripted by those beings, take those vines, weave them, prune them, and pour mind, and heart, and soul to glue them together, and so, craft vessels where these creatures should dwell, and evolve, and build, and thrive—or struggle, and decay, and die; vessels that, for better or worse, should survive the writer—and, hopefully, provide those who follow their woven meanders, and entanglements, and knots, with much solace, and controversy, and laughter, and tears, and hopefully, evasion and wonder.

If such adventuresome universe appeals to you, please allow me to warmly welcome you to my world!

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