Once More, with Feeling

He starred blankly at the computer screen. The blinking cursor was a constant reminder of how little progress he made during the 67 minutes he sat in front of his desktop. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He grabbed his cup of tea to sip and grimaced. The tea had grown cold before he drank any.

He stood up and stretched before doing some squats. A deep breathe with every fall and a rush of released air with every rise. He stopped when he built up a light perspiration. There was still nothing. He shouldn’t be surprised that he wasn’t able to write anything unique. Skill and knowledge could be lost through simple neglect. It was a long time since he wrote anything that wasn’t a financial report.

He starred at the monitor for another minute before deciding to brew another cup of tea. He grabbed his cup and walked downstairs to the kitchen. His wife was out with their son and grandchildren. As much as they tried to convince him, he couldn’t see the appeal in camping.

He opened a tin of tea leaves and pinched a measured amount between his fingers and into the cup. As the water poured out from an electric kettle, he tried to recall the habits of famous authors. He knew that J. R. R. Tolkien built out his world before he started his grand work, but he struggled to even lay the first brick.

He yelped in pain. The cup had overfilled and hot liquid scalded his hand. He rushed over to the sink and stuck it under cold water for half a minute. He closed the tap and poured out some of the tea before wiping away the residue from the table and the cup with a dish rag. 

He headed back upstairs, sipping carefully along the way. He tried to recall his youth, whiling away the day with tales that use to spark so much excitement and wonderment.

When he first read The Lord of the Rings and the Foundation series, they left an indelible mark upon him. They impressed upon him of a land, a time, and a space that were as awe inspiring as they were horrifying. 

Reading the books cast a spell that charmed and captivated. By arranging the letters and words in the right sequence, they wove a peerless illusion. And he was always aware of the illusion, but that didn’t matter. It never mattered. It was one he was willing to fall for every time.  It was a type of magic that he wanted so desperately to wield and master.

When he wasn’t busy with his studies, friends, or family, he would be reading novels and writing in his notebook. He wrote many stories of himself alongside literary icons. He would be slaying orcs with Aragon or aiding Hari Seldon in creating his Plan.  When he saw Star Wars in theaters, he was one of the last Jedi biding their time on a remote world or Obi-Wan’s hidden apprentice. 

He wrote dozens of stories and shared some with his parents. It wasn’t until they thought he gave them an old story that he came to a realization. He was a bird merely reshaping and combing the nest of the authors that soared high above. He needed to leave if he wanted to fly like them.

He created new stories inspired by the works he loved. They were tales of good versus evil. They had knights in shining armor, a wise wizard, a roguish thief , and a villain cloaked in evil.

He learned how to build worlds from books, but his life would shape and change how they worked. As he became more aware of his surroundings, of politics, and of scarcity, his writing began to evolve accordingly. The characters became morally complex. The goals were no longer as clear cut. A simple happy ending was a naïve concept. 

He didn’t expect his parents to support him in his decision to write as a living. It didn’t hurt any less to have them voice their displeasure.  Their argument made logical sense. The authors he admired were exceptional and the millions of fans that they had would also have the same dream as he did.

He was a practical man. Dreams didn’t put food on the table or a roof over ones head. He accepted his parents’ argument and thought that he would simply write whenever he had free time. He never expected his passion to wane.

His time during his university career took much of his energy, but it was freely given. It would be weeks before he even considered writing anything and even then it would sit half-baked and unfinished. 

When he wasn’t studying, he was socializing with his friends, or attending events. His focus was being pulled in a different direction, and it was as enthralling as the books he read.  It was the story of him and how he lived, and it was being written in real time. 

He recalled falling overboard during a white water rafting trip and the relief on the faces his friends when he survived unharmed. He remembered screaming his lungs out during rock concert before being thrown out for attempting to climb the stage. And he could never forget his skydiving excursions particularly the time when the primary chute failed to deploy.

Despite the revelry and adventures, he still managed to graduate near the top of his class. He started working as a sales representative for a car dealership before becoming employed by an accounting firm. 

He would meet his future wife through friends. He thought her snobbish while she believed him to be immature.  They would marry a few years later. They traveled the world together and saw the Aurora Borealis in Iceland, the Pyramids of Giza, and towering skyscrapers of New York. It would be another few years later when he found out he was going to be father. The stress he felt driving her to the hospital was only matched by the happiness upon seeing the birth of his son.

He watched him grow and make mistakes. They argued and fought, but their bond was as strong as Frodo’s Mithril chain mail. He watched him grow up to be a fine man. He had the same adventurous streak as himself and his wife. More than once his son came home in crutches from either mountain biking or skiing out of bounds. 

He had doubts about his son’s wife. She seemed so stubborn and combative, but his wife was fond of her and his son obviously loved her. He balked when his wife pointed out that they both share similar traits. He was glad that his grandchildren weren’t as unruly.

It was a few months before his wife went on that camping trip with his son that he decided to retire. He wanted to travel again with his wife before old age could rob him of his strength. He had a small dinner with the partners and they gifted him with a bottle of 25 year Macallan. It still remained in the top cupboard unopened.

Now that he was alone and at rest after what seemed like decades of non-stop activity, he started reminiscing about the past. He missed his old habit and decided to give it another try.

He gently settled the cup upon his desk and resumed starring at the blinking cursor. He was never going to be next acclaimed author remembered by millions. Whatever talent or skill he had when he was young had long ago faded. 

And that was fine by him.

He stood up and walked over to his book shelf and pulled out a worn copy of the Hobbit. He brushed a thumb across the pages. Bilbo never wanted to leave the Shire and yet with just a little prodding from Gandalf, he would go on an adventure that would change the course of Middle Earth.

A forgotten memory arose which made him smile and chuckle. He started writing because he wanted to be a part of the worlds he loved. It was silly of him to not remember. After all, he was the shining beacon in the dark and the last hope of a fledgling rebellion.

He replaced the book and settled back in front of the computer. His fingers danced across the keys as if guided by magic.

“A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…”