I am a writer!!!!!!!!

[The Telcontarion]

When I Learned I Liked to Read; When I Learned I WAS a Writer.

I never liked reading books. I always saw reading as something nerds did, and I never considered myself a nerd, because of this I never read. I just did not uderstand how someone could read a book without pictures, “A book without pictures is like a woman without breasts; what the hell?” Needless to say I was a fool.

You have to understand I considered myself a “normal” teenager. I did everything normal teenagers did: I was into music, sports, going out and having fun, fashion, and of course girls.

In a lot of ways I was not average. I considered myself an intellectual. I was very creative. Artistic by nature, I was into animation - specifically Japanese animation - and comic books. I even decided I wanted to become a cartoonist and or an animator, but there was something missing. I felt inadequate. Incomplete.

I could remember that althrough high school one of my favorite things to do in class was to write short stories. Not assignments you woud take home and bring back in a week or two, which was fine. But the short stories you would be asked to write that were based on a phrase, a topic or even end or start with a certain sentence, which would be due at the end of the class. It forced me to think, to be creative, and I loved that. I loved the “challenge.” Looking back I guess I should have known then but I didn't.

I must confess here that I had developed a great curiosity about books. Not because I thought I would like it, but because I saw it as a “challenge.”

One day the mother of a friend of mine, who was always reading books, was at the end of her latest book, of which I had been asking her about. At this time the itch to find out whether or not I could actually read a whole book was at it’s apex. I walked through their front gate, up there sloped drive way and walked into their house through the wide open front door. In the living room to my left Shaka - my friend - was sprawled on a recliner, watching tv, while socking from a straw some concoction he had made. No doubt his mother probably thought it was lemonade or some such, but knowing him I knew better. Suddenly I felt quite thirsty. Looking up from his “lemonade,” he gave me an acknowledging wave - not bothering to take his mouth off the straw - and continued watching tv. To my right was his mother Mrs. Cooke, sitting elegantly crossed legged in her own chair reading her book. It was a sunny, bright day in Kingston Jamaica, a cool breeze was blowing, smelling of joy, happiness and bliss; the birds were all chirping. It was a good day for a challenge. Mrs. Cooke was visible from the driveway reading the book as I was walking up and I had decided then that I was going to borrow a book today. “How is the book,” I asked for the hundredth time.

“It was o.k.,” she replied, “I'm done, you want to borrow it?”

She asked this with a slight smile, evident only by a little twitch of her lips and a slight lifting of her eyebrows. I frowned and squinted at her. Sometimes I thought she knew what was going on with me before I did. Bitch. To understand this comment about such a noble woman, you have to understand the dynamics here. She had offered to lend me books before, and she would respond to my disinterest with an indifferent shrug that always seem to suggest, your loss. All the while subconsciously increasing my curiosity. Like I said, bitch.

I took the book. Then turning to Shaka I said, “May I have some of your lemonade?”

“Raahhahiiight,” he said sarcastically, as he reached for a condensation coated igloo at his feet.

It was called Rama Revealed by Arthur C. Clarke, who was a very famous and revolutionary writer, one of who's books, was turned into one of my favorite movies of all time, 2001: A Space Odyssey, featuring the mad but sad, computer Hal. The book took me five months to read. It was slow going at first, but as with any book - as I came to find out - it picked up at various points. It was time consuming and I had to wait along time for those points, unlike comic books, which tended to flow a bit more kinetically with pictures to compliment the action. As it turned out however, there are good books and bad books. This one was somewhere in between. It was thought provoking, even interesting but I wasn't that impressed.

So my first reading experience did not impress me. I was proud though of the fact that I read an entire book. So I was not discouraged and I decided I would give it another try.

When I returned the Book, Mrs. Cooke asked, “How was it?” I told her how I felt, “But I'm thinking about borrowing another one though,” I said after, “but this one has to be real good.”

She smiled and said “O.K.” She turned and walked over to her book shelf, glided her eyes over the books for a second, paused, leaned in and picked out a book and came back over. “Here,” she said.

I took it and looked at it. You know that old saying, “You can't judge a book by it's cover,” well that was very hard to do with this one. It had a green hard cover with flowery designs and the title instead of pictures on it. It was visibly old, weather stained and if the pages weren't falling out, they were brittle. Bits and pieces would come off each page as you touched it. I looked at her with a very doubtful look. “You're sure this is good?” I questioned. She looked at me with that slight smile again and said, rather confidently, “Just read it.” So I took her word for it and read it.

Though I was still dubious about it's potential, I decided, from my limited experience in reading, that the best thing to do is to dive right into it and be persistent.

The book was calledThe Silmarrillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien. What would be the best way to describe my experience reading this book? Do you remember eating ice cream for the first time; not knowing what this cold creamy thing was, but slurp after slurp your eyes go wide, your mouth waters as your taste buds respond to the positive stimula, and even though you get brain cramps from the cold delicacy, you don't mind so much, so long as the reward for the suffering is another slurp of ice cream.

Chapter after chapter - slurp after slurp - my “mind’s eye” goes wide, as I become aware of levels of consciousness and perception that I never dreamed existed. Responding to the positive stimula my mind races, yearning for more; I rip and crumple the brittle worn pages as I turn them in my eagerness. I tire. It has been hours, my head hurts and I am hungry, but I dear not stop, not even to get something to eat. I can bear the suffering, if it means my reward will be another chapter - another slurp - of this book.

This however, doesn't begin to describe fully, The Silmarillion. How could it describe a story which is a creation myth of an entire world, an entire universe. Told so vividly, so detailed in every way: chronologically, genealogically, sociologically and theologically, that the story not only comes to life, you actually believe that this is an account of actual events in some long forgotten time.

I beheld, “the days before days,” when the sun and the moon did not exist. I beheld the Valar - which means the powers - god like beings that represented all the elements of the world. I beheld the elves, the first born children of Eru, the one god. The fathers of elves being the first to awaken on the shores of lake cuvinien upon middle-earth, far east of the misty mountains beyond Eriador.

There is a chapter that's called “Of The Coming Of Men,” which is actually a mythical account of the coming of men into the world. The second born. For that matter, there is a chapter that describes the making of the sun and the moon.

I witnessed acts of heroism, pity and kindness, and acts of pure evil. I witnessed times of pure joy and happiness, and then times of bitter loss, regret and sadness.

There are moments this book becomes so dark and terrifying, that your palms, face and chess will sweat, and you get goose bumps all over your body. The hair on your back rises, and if you are in a room alone, you will hurry to turn on the light, look about you and make sure that there is not a balrog coiled behind you, poised to strike.

This is a story that spans ages. Beginning in “the days before days” and ending with the “war of the ring.” Held together by the experiences of the immortal elves and their allies amongst Dwarves and Men. It is about their war against Morgoth, the enemy of the world, the first dark lord. Fighting “the long defeat.”

Though I have said much about this book, and it might surprise you, but I have not told fully a tenth of all the magnificent stories, and stories within stories contained in the this book.

The share scope and magnificense of the book made me wonder how hard, how pain staking, how challenging, it most have been to write it. When I thought about it, I wished that I could do that, wished that I could meet that challenge. In fact, I realized that I wished, I was the one who wrote the book.

In the very moment I had that thought, it hit me like a lightning bolt in my brain. Searing my retinas, blinding me to everything else but that moment of absolute truth. I realized; finally, I knew.



Behold! Like a babe I am; newly born.

The night is gone, the veil is shorn,

Dawn has come; I see.

Alas! Alas! There is a writer in me.

[Ireth]

That was very well written, Telcontarion. I am a bit of a writer myself-mostly it is fan fiction-but I've read enough to know a good piece of work. A little care with the spellings wouldn't hurt though.

[The Telcontarion]

Originally Posted by Ireth

That was very well written, Telcontarion. I am a bit of a writer myself-mostly it is fan fiction-but I've read enough to know a good piece of work. A little care with the spellings wouldn't hurt though.

Why thank you sir/madamme, I appreciated the kind words.

May your armor never rust.