To call a book mythic is usually to flatter it. The word has been worn smooth by marketing until it means little more than "large" or "old-feeling." We mean something narrower and more demanding by it.
Mythic literature is the discipline of carrying the largest questions — of origin, order, mortality, and obligation — in a form that an ordinary reader can hold in two hands and finish in a season. It does not lecture. It does not allegorize so neatly that the story becomes a delivery mechanism for a thesis. It builds a world whose laws are felt before they are understood, and it trusts the reader to do the understanding.
A myth does not explain the world. It furnishes the world with enough order that a person can live a question without being crushed by it.
The PalmCaster cosmology is built on this conviction. Its spheres, its immortals and mortals, its primordial orders — these are not set dressing. They are the architecture within which a single small figure can carry a question across an entire cycle and never set it down.
We ask a great deal of the books we publish, because mythic literature asks a great deal of its readers, and we would not insult them by asking for less.