Entering fourth grade was probably the greatest thing that ever happened for my writing. Allow me to paint the picture-
It’s 6:45AM in the autumn of 2003. The leaves are gently cascading from the maples that line my street creating a mesmerizing dance of orange and red as they float to the ground. These delicate leaves find themselves stuck firmly to the familiar rattling old school bus - the twinky-shaped one that still smelled of the 1950s pseudo-leather that made up its tired seats. The brakes let out a high-pitched squeal as the bus comes to a halt, and our seasoned bus driver, Mr. Steve, offers a morning greeting of mumbled words, through a beard reminiscent of a wise elder from a fantasy tale.
You plop down, the first pick up on an hour long pilgrimage, and hurriedly unzipped your Jansport backpack. There, between the still-new folders and your lunchbox lovingly packed by your mother, is a book. But not just any book. A fantasy book. A book filled with dragons, knights, and magic. For the next hour, you were lost. Lost to the many other kids who piled on, the rhythmic patter of rain on the windows, and to Mr. Steve’s bizarre whistling. You were off on an adventure to a distant realm.
This particular morning was one among many, offering an escape that liberated the heart and soothed the mind. It was the beginning of my love affair with fantasy, enticed by the ever-present invitation to dream. Fantasy writers share their dreams with their readers - crafting extraordinary worlds with the strokes of their words. Worlds one might never dream of on their own. But slowly, and surely, the reader too lies awake inspired to draw and conceive - ultimately evolving into a creator of their own until, one day, they’re writing a fantasy of their own.
I’ll say it again: entering fourth grade was probably the greatest thing that ever happened for my writing. At that point, I had officially become a reader, and by becoming a reader I found myself doing what just about all avid readers do: I was quite suddenly interested in passing along those books to my friends. I called them like Sauron. One by one persuading them into my love of fantasy. Gradually, they started to grasp the allure—some more than others, but the journey had begun.
In addition to the many fantastical escapes on my bus rides to school, 4th grade held significance for another reason. My teacher, Mr Andy, was a towering, kind-hearted man who was only in his late 20s or early 30s. Despite his youth, or maybe because of it, we adored him. Mr. Andy had a remarkable knack for infusing joy into learning. Not in the games way, but the intriguing way. The way that captured those burgeoning imaginations and guided them toward story. Whether by the state mandated curriculum or by his own genius design (I like to think it was the latter), Mr. Andy taught us how to create our first book report. For the first time, I was being asked to not only read, but to share my thoughts and feelings on the matter. The world shattered. It was a birth of a passion.
We probably wrote about 8 book reports that year, but I won the Reading Iditarod that year by reading 36 books. I remember the pride that gave me. As a reward, I got to go to lunch with Mr. Andy. It felt like I was having lunch with a celebrity. I loved book reports so much I would even dress up in costume to deliver them to my classmates. Dad even helped me make a cellophane campfire that flickered. I can only imagine what I looked like to my peers as I squatted over an open (fake) flame and delivered my thoughts in a hastily practiced cowboy voice.
Regardless of whatever social suicide it caused, I was hooked. I loved to write. I loved to perform. One day my performing would take to the local stage - and my writing would twist and turn itself all the long way to this blog. Mostly just skipping and hopping over the carefree lines of free verse poetry after long hours in the mines of collegiate essays.
But the influence of the fourth grade does not end with fantastical bus rides and the joys of book reports. No. It was in that year that my friendship with a boy named Max produced what would be called The Game.
Max and I shared the bond of our reading and love of fantasy more deeply than I think I gave credit to at the time. We shared books, movies, and crafted play weaponry with one another. Is there a more deeply rooted friendship amongst boys? The Game spun out from those shared interests. It was pure imagination. Everything was make believe, and WOW was it big. We traveled the world together. His name was Aome, largely the hero of the story, and mine was Geome, his brother, whose many adventures and exploits had made him somewhat famous in the land. I’ll keep the lore here short. The Game was the first thing that felt like a real, tangible awakening of my dreams. It felt REAL. And despite the decades that have passed, that reality has cemented itself in my heart and mind. We played that game in forests, fields, kitchens, basements, and even under Max’s stairs. We rode those bouncy-ball-with-handles toys as our horses. We fended off Orcs with PVC pipe. And all the while we’d be true to our characters.
I’ll make a wild guess and say that many of us fantasy lovers have a similar memory. We probably had similar sticks, castles, flags, and made up languages. For those of that era, you are probably a massive fan of The Lord of the Rings like I am.
As I have written the Wars of Meridian I have found myself transported back into that magic. In so many ways, I feel that I have unlocked a passageway back to my inner child. I wanted to give credit where credit is due. To the fourth grade. To Mr. Andy, and to my friend Max.
The book I have written is not a children’s story or a young adult novel. But what I have hoped to achieve with it, is the same transportive nature of the great fantasy books that have made such enormous impacts on my life. I hope that someday my readers can comment on the world that I have built for them to explore. In my mind, that is probably the single most important goal that I am setting out to achieve. I want my readers to see Meridian like I do. I want them to taste the bread and smell the forests. I want to reach out through the tattered Jansport backpack still carried by aging millennial fantasy fans.
I want this because the bus ride of life is long. It’s boring. It’s wet, and often doesn’t smell to great. The bus feels packed to the brim, the heater is on high, and the old steel windows don’t open anymore.
There is a lot of great fantasy out there. But there’s also a lot of the same old, same old. I want Meridian to stand alone. Just enough to give readers the fresh air I want it to. And I think that’s all the success I would ever need: knowing I transported at least one person, somewhere, to join me in Meridian.
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