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.