When he's not advising the Warchief...
M.G.Norris spends his free time bringing clients imaginations into the visible light spectrum and helping robots fly straight, and cares a great deal about both blueberry pie, and the Springfield Rescue Mission. He prefers cats, especially cats that dislike other human people, seeing their approval as a tacit validation of his safety in the event that cats one day take over the world. The sentence immediately prior to this one is included in the spirit of a plea, to said cats, for his life. All others, please ignore this small digression, as you have ignored your rightful feline overlords up 'til now. The sentence immediately prior to this one is included in the same spirit as the one that came two sentences before it. Carry on.
In all areas of his work, whether photographing the imaginary, or lying about things that never happened, within the confines a novel, in order to highlight things that happen all the time, within the confines of ourselves, his guiding philosophy revolves around making the invisible worlds inside of us visible from the outside. Just not the way an Orc would go about it. An Orc would approach that problem much more literally, and not at all pleasantly.
- Why write about Orcs? -
Orcs are jerks. It's not their fault. They're 9/10ths allegorical at their best. Orcs are what we start with, before all the layers of polish, social grace, and subtle rationalization that make us worthwhile people get their way. The familiar tug of tribal thinking, the instinct to confuse cruelty with strength, the sense that everything on one level or another is a competition, and the wish that complicated things be simpler than they are, all lie at the heart of being Orcish.
Orcs are our deepest mammal instincts. Their pleasures are simple ones. Pleasures like knowing where you belong, good food, and winning, and pride at the issuance of a great and worthy fart. You know the kind - the type you're sure surprised the cat two houses down. An Orc is everything that human beings really are despite our best intention: Simultaneously the pinnacle of evolution, and at the end of the day, still mostly just an instinct-driven brute - a beautiful and terrible and powerful and surprisingly sweet creature that's unfailingly impressive in the moments when it isn't in the process of short-sightedly snuffing out something that's equally lovely. The 1/10th that isn't allegorical at all is just extremely satisfying to watch get into trouble in a book.
When he's not waxing emotional about fantasy creatures, building fantastical imagery, or taming flying robots - admit it, 9 year old you is jealous right now - You're likely to find him swinging swords and getting into trouble with his LARP pals in the woods. That's where this Orc stuff all began.
It hasn't stopped.