Morning all, am still awake, and since I’m on night hours again, I might as well write. I’m listening to a biography on Tolkien. His sons are featured in this version, and I’m glad to know that being a nerd raised with Hobbits and such that he was such a nerd himself.
When I was little, my Grandmother, Albertina would give me books. I dove into the written word like the escape that it is. The worlds of Tolkien were much kinder than the world I was living in at the time. Though blonde, I was the ‘red headed step child’ so to speak.
My Aunt Edith was the one who bought the books for us kids, but we didn’t know that. I’m just grateful for them over 45 years later. When I write fiction, I dig from those worlds, or maybe dive in myself, and head down a corridor, pulling the door shut behind me. Usually, it takes a very full bladder to bring me back to reality. Almost like waking up from a dream.
I spent so much time in the worlds of Narnia and Middle Earth, that sometimes I still dream that I’m there. When I was really young, I visited Tiktok in Oz, and swam the river Styx of mythology. I’d run on the Serengeti, or the wilds of a glacier with London.
My heros are authors. That’s no shock, I’m sure. In 2021, decades later, I still lay down and read for hours at a time. This time, to escape the pain of a body that is crippled. When I write though, I bring the reader into my body for a few hours. I need to get beyond that. No one needs to be here for long.
Have a good day my friend, hope all is well with you. The hubs just woke up and wants his coffee. I suppose I better grab him one.
AnonymousKnitter 