A reader must connect in some way with one or more of the main characters in a book for that reader to keep reading—next word, next paragraph, next page.
As a writer, my hope is that the readers might think, that’s what I would think, too, if some jerk said that to me. Or I’ve always wanted to do that but never dared to. We might even think, I really like this guy—kinda reminds me of….
For me, character development is crucial as my books are character driven. So, first, I want to create characters that in some way resonate with me. If I am successful in doing this, the character has depth and just enough substance so that a reader can grab hold to something about that character that intrigues them as well.
Character Development Takes Some Probing
By probing into and exploring what the character thinks and feels, it is only natural for me to feel connected to the character on a deeper level. During this process, I draw an endless stream of thoughts and feelings from within and use them like bricks to build the character.
The joy of both reading and writing comes from the same place; a well-developed character.
I’m convinced that this is what makes exceptional characters, and it is what most readers want when they choose to invest their time, and heart, into reading.
In Reading, Writing, and Yes, in Real Life Too
Unless you’ve fully immersed yourself in remote work or spend your days and nights only chatting with an AI without a soul on the internet, you meet people in everyday life. This is a good thing because we are social beings. When we meet others and spend just thirty seconds with them, our minds tend to race. We might focus on one word they say, zero in on their eyes or hair—or something physical. Sometimes, we learn more about that person than we want. We wonder if we will see them again or if we hope we never do. Is it fate or coincidence that this person has entered our lives? And what, if anything, do we want to do about it?
In other words, we evaluate the person much like we evaluate characters in a book.
I see, think, and feel a blend between reading, writing, and the “real” world. I want the characters I read about and those I write about to feel as real as the people who come into our lives, whether for a moment or a lifetime.
Because I have written four novels and a book of seventeen short stories, I’ve created many characters. Some are more developed than others, but overall, they are all unique—they are individuals. I’ve crafted characters that, to me, seem so real that when I type the final period of a story, I immediately miss them as if they were living beings.
When you read good fiction, don’t you feel the same?
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Our life is all about moments. We string togehter our moments and that is our life. We hope we have more good moments than not, but all of those moments no matter what make us who we are. I try to remember my moments that made a difference for me like the one I had with Bill Moyers .
That one moment — and it was just that, a single moment — that I have never forgotten is when I received a message from the late Bill Moyers, (June 5, 1934 – June 26, 2025).
Photo from the ap
Reaching Out to Bill Moyers
I wrote to Bill Moyers assistant inquiring if he would be interested in accepting a copy of the first book in my fantasy trilogy, “The Amulet: Journey to Sirok”. It didn’t take long before she responded, sharing with me that he would be happy to receive my book.
I sent him the book with this email:
August 4, 2017
Dear Mr. Moyers,
I am very honored to have this opportunity to not only send you my book,The Amulet: Journey to Sirok, but to tell you that The Power of Myth and Joseph Campbell inspired me to write it. I have read the book several times, as well as other books by or about Campbell, but your interview style and questions bring great clarity to the vastness, and sometime complexity, of mythology. Thank you.
My book takes a new spin on the Hero’s Journey as I feel I have written it for our time. This is a time when stereotypes are been thrown to the wind and, those who have their eyes open and looking forward, are embracing humanities beautiful differences.
I would like to urge you to read my story. I hope you can sharewith me your thoughts. Please share with (assistant’s name) that I appreciate her warm and inviting response to me.
Thank you for your consideration, and I hope for only the best to come your way.
Warmly,
Ed Kardos
Ten Days Later, Mr. Moyers Responded
Aug 14, 2017
Dear Mr. Kardos:
Thank you for your generous words about THE POWER OF MYTH and for your book. I look forward to reading it.
My best to you,
Bill Moyers
There are many other articles written about Bill Moyers that reflect the generous and powerful impact he made during his lifetime, but what I found profound was the moment he gave to me. It was both generous and powerful.
Most folks of his stature, and those with far less stature (and we all know who they are), would have dismissed my original email. But in less than two weeks, Bill Moyers not only accepted a copy of my book, thanked me personally, and, according to his assistant, “took the book home”. There’s so much packed into these moments.
He validated my place as a writer.
I meant it when I shared with him: “I have read the book several times, as well as other books by or about Campbell, but your interview style and questions bring great clarity to the vastness, and sometime complexity, of mythology…”.
Those “questions” that brought “great clarity” made all the difference for me
My Take on The Power of Myth
The Power of Myth explores how universal themes and symbols in myths provide insight into our humanity. This includes our relationships with others, the powers of the universe, and ourselves.
The “Hero’s Journey” is analyzed and clearly demonstrates that following one’s bliss has been essential to humanity since our earliest thoughts and will remain so as long as we exist. In other words, myths are just as important today as they were long ago.
As the Hero’s Journey is central to my work, I have read this book and a dozen others about Joseph Campbell’s work many times. I recommend this one in particular because of Bill Moyers’ contributions.
Mr. Moyers made numerous contributions during his lifetime in many areas and we are better off because of him. What a wonderful man.
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
I frequently hear the question: if you could talk to your younger self, what would you say? Intriguing, but why ask this question or for that matter, why give it much thought?
After all, we can’t do it — never.
The allure of the question lies in the supposition that we are now wiser; if we could just have a moment back, say from twenty or thirty years ago, we would be able to share our new found wisdom with our younger selves and we would benefit from it. I get it, really I do. Yep, I’d love to be able to do it.
But after some thought I realize it’s just never goning to happen. So I’ve come up with my own twist on this notion.
Photo by Europeana
If you were able to speak to your OLDER self, what would you say? That’s something we can do…well in time.
We all have valuable experiences that we can share, however, not many folks don’t want unsolicited advice no matter how wonderful we think we are. However, we probably don’t, and won’t, mind listening to ourselves so let’s share it with ourselves a little down the road.
No matter how old we are, we have had experiences — both good and bad. Events in our lives have shaped us, bothered us, have even played with us, and at times, questioned our very being.
If we ever reflect and allow for even a modest amount of introversion in our lives, we learn.
We may learn, but we don’t always remember or practice what we learn, as it may be crowded out by the everyday and mundane activities that can overtake the best of us. So, write it down! Keep it tucked away and pull it out and share it with our older self. Your older self will appreciate it as we know it comes from a special place deep within and meant to make our lives more fulfilling down the road.
We Don’t Know When
You’re in the present for goodness sake, and your future may or may not come, but be ready for it as your older self wants to hear from you.
Since the past is gone, I say don’t waste your brain power on what you’d tell your ghost of the past.
What would I say to myself when I’m 67 or 75 or 85 or…? You may be younger than I and may wonder what you might say to the 25, 30, 45, or older you. Whatever you end up saying, it is relevant and important as it meant something to you “back when”. It shows how you thought and how your mind worked. It is a memory that is just yours and it’s worth remembering and repeating, especially to yourself.
Here’s what I’ll say, at least for now
Not only do I want to think of what I “might” say to my older self, I already know some ideas to share. By the way, when I use the word “you” it means “me”.
You were always hard on yourself and if you still are, stop it. Ease up old fella.
You always said that if you had the time, you’d travel the world, so do it–now.
You wondered if your life’s work helped anyone. Hell ya, you spent your work life in a field with a mission to better life for others, and the modest paycheck you brought home, you gave it to your family so that they could have what they needed, and then some, at the time.
So, what if you didn’t write the “great American novel” you sure have hell tried. Who else do you know even attempted writing a book much less finished writing one?
Bucket list or no bucket list, if you haven’t done everything you wanted, don’t worry about it but keep going.
The regrets that are floating around in your head aren’t worth spending time on. Don’t bog yourself down with stuff that could’ve been or might have happened if you had only done this or that.
Thank God you are not a perfectionist and did not live a perfect life. Have you seen those who are and how they lived? Sheesh!
Be who you are even if you couldn’t do it when you were my age.
Chill out, smile through it. I think older folks could smile a bit more–even you.
You ain’t in the 80’s anymore and that’s a good thing wheter you think so or not. It wasn’t as wonderful as you may remember. I know from personal experience even if you think otherwise.
How fortunate you are to have experienced love of and for another and for so long.
Your kids loved you then and still do so don’t even think about it.
You met a lot of people along the way, befriended some and they embraced it or not. They missed out.
The decisions you made along the way were the best for that moment in time so that means THEY WERE the best decsions. so don’t do all that second-guessing.
Hey, I’m telling you these things because I love you AND I know what I’m talking about as I’m talking to you and your me—just my older me.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Ah, the gloaming. Twilight…the moment when the day dims its brilliance and welcomes the early shadows of its friendly rival, of sorts, the night.
It’s far more than twilight, dusk, or the setting sun. There’s something more mystical about the moment known as the gloaming. I would say that this peaceful transition of power in nature is even magical. I’ve experienced it, have you?
Photo by Tetyana Kovyrina
Experiencing The Gloaming
First you must be outside and it can be just about anywhere. I prefer where you can observe nature. It costs nothing, but if you’re willing, it just might open a door—a magical door.
First, clear your mind, or the door of enchantment remains closed. Be open to what your internal voice tells you. Your imagination will become heightened. You may even feel “as one” with your surroundings. As we grow older, we lose our natural sense of wonder.
The Gloaming Begins…
When does the gloaming begin or end? Pinpointing those exact moments isn’t easy. I would say that when the day’s clarity becomes muted and loses its luster, and displays for only a few moments blends of blues, purples, and reds, you know it’s the gloaming. It’s a feeling, too, and not a calculated moment that can be recorded.
I love when the sun’s rays lose their intensity, and its light melts into the earth. This is the moment when only what we imagine comes alive. It is a magical moment, that is, if you permit it to be.
After all, that’s what magic is…if you believe in it, you will be part of it.
The magic of the gloaming is poetic…it is lyrical. The moment is enchanting as the fading light dances on the rocks, trees, or a pond, it stirs a sense of awe. The “what ifs” freely enter your mind.
The moment teems with the spirit we all possess as it tugs us into introspection. What we long for comes to mind as we look back on the path the day had to offer. Like that very day, we now loosen our hold of both the good and the bad that the day detailed and eases us into a smooth wholeness of the evening, where the once sharp edges are now softened.
Lightening Bugs
Where I am, in June and only during this month, I am joined by lightning bugs. Just think of their existence. I heard they have been around for 100 million years. It’s really pretty cool. Their flickering presence is unique, and it is dreamlike. Theyare a welcome guest as they are nothing less than magical.
To their potential mate their luminescence is clear and attractive and is the door to future generations. To their predators, however, their light is a signal that if eaten, it will not fare well for the aggressor. Nature is wonderful.
Our Thoughts are the Magic
The gloaming sparks possibilities—some mundane and sensible, while others may be wild and untamed. Our thoughts are the magic. Our feelings float like a mystical aura, and we know there is much we cannot explain, and we are reassured that this is a good thing.
In this vast universe, our knowledge is but a small sliver of what life is all about. As the years progress, we learn more, but we have a long road to travel before us if our goal as humans is to unravel every mystery.
There’s still time to enjoy the magic and mystery in each of us. I hesitate to attempt to dispel all that is magical in our lives and encourage others to consider the same. We just need to slow down and allow our minds to wander. We need the clarity of our future like the lightning bug, and subtly let it be known to our detractors that we are not to be messed with.
I do write fiction, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.
Note: An Old English word, gloaming, originated with the Scottish and has been used since the Middle Ages in English and Scottish literature.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Several years ago, soon after my first book of my fantasy trilogy was launched, Paulo Coelho responded to an email I sent him with a note of “congratulations and success”. Talking about small miracles, I was in awe.
Coelho happens to be an author I hold in high regard and who has inspired much of my writing, especially in my trilogy, The Elias Chronicles.
Coelho has authored numerous books, but the one that captured my heart was The Alchemist. It was given to me by a dear friend who felt it was important for me to read. I had never heard of the author or the book at the time. Now, I recommend it to all. It is a story of believing in yourself and following your dream.
More Small Miracles
Months later, I sent Coelho a follow-up email. Would I be lucky again and hear back from this known author around the world. I was amazed to hear from him once, but would I hear from him again?
The stars and planets must have been aligned, as I did hear from him once more. With a short note, he sent me a copy of a story that he wrote that was being published in many journals around the world.
Again, I was overwhelmed by his gift to me. His generous action and the simplicity and power of his story inspired me to write Blessing the Poor. A holiday story, which I plan to post in December.
Here’s What I’m Thinking
The book that was given to me by my friend years ago, and Coelho’s generous acts, are testaments of why I believe the way I do; we must take time and value each moment of our lives. But then, we need to do more. We must take it upon ourselves to inspire others to reach for what is good in them and around them.
Not only should we dream, and we should dream, but it is what we do with our experiences that counts much more than the dream. Dreams are just that, dreams, but our experiences make us who we are.
In Coelho’s last message to me in 2008, he ended by telling me, “The Warrior of light concentrates on the small miracles of daily life.” I decided to learn more from his words and read what I found. I contemplated this phrase.
Photo by Alban_Gogh
These are my takeaways
These small miracles are found in our ability to find beauty and appreciate it. Finding joy and fulfillment can be found in the sublime and the mundane. This, I would say, is always found in the moment.
Gratitude need not be for receiving abundance, but for the sliver of good that may pass us by if we are focused on our desires.
The “Warrior of Light” finds beauty in others as they nurture their light within them.
The “Warrior of Light” isn’t always successful, but in failure, they find the light.
We are all intuitive creatures, and when we open ourselves to the voice within and look to the powers of the universe for guidance, regardless of our spiritual beliefs and practices, wisdom is not too far away.
I must remind myself to acknowledge the small miracles of daily life.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
“One day, you will be old enough to start reading fairytales again.” ― C.S. Lewis
Have you ever read The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis? For that matter, have you ever read any fairytales, fables, myths, legends, folktales or any story that takes you on a magical adventure?
Well, I’m pretty sure we’ve all read a tale or two when we were young. Lucky are those of us who have included these stories—I would include fantasy in this category—in our lives as we’ve moved beyond the innocence of childhood and have experienced the layers of age.
So what did Lewis mean when he said,“One day, you will be old enough to start reading fairytales again.”?
Just as the first few stars that appear in the early night sky are followed by many more, in Lewis’ twelve word quote, we realize there are countless ways to interpret his words. I have a few thoughts to share.
When We First Read Stories of Magic, Marvel, and Mystery
Innocence Lost, but is that Forever?
We all wanted to be that kid—at least I did and still do. You know, the kid with the sword, in the spaceship, the one who went on an adventure and became the hero. Or the kid that found something marvelous and magical—or the one that went back in time, into the future or was a princess or a prince. The kid that won the “golden ticket” or flew with dragons.
As kids we search for magic as we know it is there. It’s a question of how do we get to it. Maybe there’s a special cave, or a hidden door to an undiscovered land. Maybe a wand in a trunk or a map with a code that we can crack. Maybe it is in an old trunk in Grandma’s attic.
But We Grow Up
As we grow older, something changes all that. We decide, or it is decided for us, that the thoughts, feelings and desires of our childhood should be left behind. Grown-ups know best…they know it all and that’s what we should aim for. Yeah, right.
Deeper Layers
What many grown-ups don’t always realize is that there is wisdom in fairytales and stories that take us on magical and mystical adventures. That’s why they were written in the first place–wisdom. This deeper layer of meaning may be missed by children but when it comes to grown-ups, they have no excuse. That’s a good reason to return to such stories.
Just like the simplicity of Lewis’ quote, fairy tales and the like may seem uncomplicated and naïve, but they are full of wisdom.
Wisdom is, unfortunately, a word that is seldom used or valued anymore.
A Place for Magic
When we grow older, the sheen of adulthood fades, however. Sometimes we see this when we are twenty-five, sixty-five or somewhere in between. Don’t get me wrong, the wonders and beauty of life grow exponentially forever, but the powers of some and the structures they impose have a way of ensnaring the best and dampen our journey–our life’s journey that should be filled with riches.
We are here but once, and to live it in a box is unappealing to say the least. If we haven’t yet found magic since we were a kid, whether we are twenty-five or sixty-five, we just might want to pause and ask why. Then look for it once again.
Magic is found in many places, and we don’t have to go far to find it in books both old and new. Wow! What a diversion. What a way to learn what it is to be human. Yes in any story that takes you on a magical adventure?
Thinking About It a Little More
I may have overcomplicated this twelve-word quote. I’m not nearly as elegant as C.S. Lewis but here are my twelve words:
You will find magic if you remember the marvels of your childhood.
It’s time to read a fairytale…a legend…a myth…or any story that takes you on a magical adventure. You deserve it.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
There’s genre fiction and then there’s literary fiction. Examples of genre fiction to name a few are: romance, fantasy, science fiction, mystery, thrillers, horror, and adventure fiction. When it comes to literary fiction, there’s really just one kind—literary fiction. There are “types” of literary fiction for instance, there is realistic, philosophical, contemporary and philosophical and something referred to as experimental fiction.
What is Literary Fiction?
Literary fiction is character-driven as opposed to being focused on the plot. Yes, you must have a plot, but it is secondary to the story. When I say “character driven” I am referring to an inward journey the main character takes and whisks the reader off to join them.
photo by Uran Wang
Full of Complexities
If the protagonist isn’t introspective, it’s not literary fiction. This is, in my opinion, the sheer joy of reading—and writing literary fiction. The main character does not react to the event in the story itself, but event spawns a feeling and the feeling manifests into an action.
Metahors, imagery and symbolism help to tell the story and by doing so may lead the reader to personal interpretations. Our own experiences shape the meaning of what we are witnessing just like in all art forms.
More About the Internal Journey
Literary fiction is purely human-centered. This is what makes this type of novel relatable. It makes it significant…important…applicable to our own lives.
Most of our journeys have nothing to do with boarding a plan, getting in a car or taking a train. Most of our journeys are inward as we try to decipher this larger journey we are all on together and that is life.
Who Reads Literary Fiction? And I’m Being General
Too few! Mostly women. Men, not so much.
Nothing against men—I’m one—but come on guys, there’s more to reading books than just science fiction, history, and biographies/memoir, crime and thrillers I should throw in stories about sports and war. Don’t get me wrong, if these are the kind of books you love to read, keep it going as reading is important, but consider mixing it up a little. Try literary fiction.
Having written literary fiction, fantasy and short stories, I’d have to agree that literary fiction is an art form…that it is “serious”. Perhaps folks would argue that all fiction is an art form. When our creative expression come in the form of words and it evokes a feeling in the observer, the reader, it is nothing less than an art form.
While reading literary ficion, our feelings and thoughts could evoke a sense of beauty or just the opposite, as humans are capable of just the opposite and pulling out our dark self. The feeling could inspire, transform or wake up that part of us that is sleeping. Believe me, there’s quite a bit burying in all of us that is fast asleep.
I Also Mentioned it’s “Serious”
Any time we read, or write, about the human condition, it is “serious” whether it’s direct, satirical or somewhere in between. Some things are out of our control and there’s no way around it, so we, and the character, deals with it. Is it how we would deal with it? Maybe.
When we read literary fiction, we are reading about what it is to be human and we see it in the choices the characters of the story must make to continue on our their path. Many times their path is not so different than ours.
My Reminder
Just a reminder, this article is what I learned from writing literary fiction. Others may interpret their knowledge and experience differently than me. That’s the beauty in writing and reading fiction. My thoughts assembled here, just like literary fiction itself, doesn’t end with a neatly tied bow, but I hope it makes us think. It makes us feel.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Although many folks express their love for their mothers on Mother’s Day, I think it should be a daily occurrence in some way. That’s not always easy to do as we get wrapped up in our own world, but we should aspire to do more…always. Something I did as a kid many years ago reminds me of doing this. I thought I’d share it with readers on this Mother’s Day.
Several years after my mom passed away, I uncovered this note and drawing. I would never have remembered writing it or drawing the picture had I not been lucky enough to find this perfectly preserved loose-leaf page. When I first laid eyes on it, memories gushed forward.
I was nine years old when I drew this picture and wrote this note—that was in 1969 some 56 years ago!
A Simple Act
It was infrequent that my mom and dad went out to dinner, but I now vividly recall this particular evening. I am the youngest of four children, and so there were MANY babysitters that night. It was an April evening. Without prompting, I did a chore for my mom. Moments after, I rummaged to find a piece of paper and a pen. For a kid my age, using a pen was new, and I wanted to use one any chance I had. I sat at the kitchen table, pulled my thoughts together, and put pen to paper. I wanted to share my picture of our home, tell her I loved her, and let her know the picture and note were hers to keep.
The Feeling
When this memory had become fresh not long ago, it came with the feelings that I had at that very moment in 1969. Feelings of a little, skinny, and shy kid. Yes, this was very weird! It was not “like” going back in time, it was more like I only knew that time as there was no other.
She Saved It
As I thought more about it, it was clear my mom cherished this gift and what it meant to her as she tucked it away and saved it. Why did she save it? I am not sure, but I have a few guesses. Looking at it today, I am warm with delight, joy, and love. Not because of anything I did, but because she saved it. Our connection was seamless—one.
Maybe she saved it for me to find many years later, when she was gone. Yes, I am certain of that. I was meant to find it these many years later. The thing is, she has never been gone from my life.
So, what about these symbols? The drawing is one thing, but the action of tucking it away is symbolic. As a parent of four myself, I know the value of such a gift. Life would be meaningless without symbols and our actions that express ourselves and our enduring love.
Not Just on Mother’s Day
The sentiments of my 9-year-old self and those of my “mommy” symbolize something powerful that cannot be touched, but it can be held as it has a place in my heart. This treasure represents goodness, life, and light. It’s a symbol of love. It’s for everyday and Mother’s Day.
What Does Love Mean?
Many folks have tried to define “love” but there is no one clear definition. For me, love lasts an eternity as its vibrations that began years ago, or at this moment, continue to move outward and forever. These vibrations trample over the ills it may find on its path. These vibrations are warm and tell us so much if we are open to listening.
It’s not about data, analytics, AI, algorithms, technology and other soulless distractions, but love is about being a part of something spectacular, wonderful and beautifully human.
Love’s Not Perfect
Interestingly, I found the rough draft of this note on the back of another picture I drew so I attached it to the back of this picture and placed it in a frame. Even after my nine-year-old self “practiced” what I wanted to write, in the version I gave my mom, I still made an error. Even after I have practiced, when the curtain goes up, and I step in front of the limelight, I do so in all my vulnerable ways—I like that about me. Never used to, though… I’m sure she knew this about me. This, too, is symbolic as I am imperfect and always have been. Love really isn’t perfect either. It is organic—it’s living, growing, and changing. As we change with it, love never ends. I miss her.
“Our House”, the chore I did without being asked, my imperfections, but most of all, the care she gave this gift and me is, indeed, a symbol that gives my life—and hers—a profound and cherished meaning.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom!
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Mentors are crucial in storytelling, especially in the genre of fantasy. Aside from the “hero” in the story, the mentor is my favorite character. A good villain, for me, comes in third. The mentor and the protagonist’s relationship is special, and that is one reason I chose to share the following excerpt of The Elixir: Journey On. The Elixir is Book III of The Elias Chronicles.
Mentors Carry a Heavy Burden
Good mentors do many things: they guide the protagonist through an evolutionary process by providing experience and knowledge and encourage resourcefulness and independent thinking. They support our hero in any way they can. Wisdom, a characteristic overlooked in the “real” world, is cherished in the fantasy world. Sometimes mentors merely encourage and show they care
All Mentors Posess the Power of Empowerment
Mentors empower the hero to make decisions, and sometimes it may be the wrong choice, but our hero learns from mistakes, and mentors know this.
Ultimately, our hero achieves personal growth even if they can’t save the world—this time.
Some Mentors of Note
Think of Gandalf and Frodo: Dumbledore and Harry; Aslan and Peter, Lucy, Susan, and Edmund; and in each of the three books of The Elias Chronicles, Zoltan and Elias.
I’m sure you have a few mentors in mind as well.
“The black moment is the moment when the real message of transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light”
Joseph Campbell
In The Elias Chronicles, a reader can start with any book as each is a stand-alone story. Saying that, I think to appreciate Elias’ journey and his development, I’d start with the first book, The Amulet: Journey to Sirok, and then read the second and third in order, The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok and The Elixir: Journey On. In each you will find the mentor, Zoltan and the hero, Elias as well as many other colorful characters that will help guide or thwart Elias from his quest.
Enjoy the excerpt…and let me know what you think. Who are your favorite mentors?
5
Climb The Stem
Weary from his encounter with the Sea Serpent, Elias stretched out squarely in the middle of the boat’s deck. His thoughts wandered at best, but without notice, they pulled him back to some frightening moments. He, however, felt gratified for untangling the scary event and helping a mom. Images of her huge bony head that disagreed with her graceful cylindrical body were imprinted in his mind. Worst of all was her shriek, and he winced as he brought it to mind. What did it all mean? The serpent—the journal—his exile? Of all places, why was he here? While wondering where land could be hiding, the faces of his friends and family overpowered all his thoughts. All he could think was, will he ever see them again?
Restless, he fiddled with a thick, coarse rope coiled to one side as he looked to the sky. Drained by his rocky voyage, he remained listless on his back as he, biding time, picked up the dagger and examined it closely. Squinting, he focused on every scratch or nuance on the cold metal blade. He delicately touched the tip of his index finger on the tiny point, and as he did, he mouthed the sound ‘ow’ while his nose twisted up on one side. Still on his back, he grabbed the hilt with two hands, and with outstretched arms, he pointed it to the blur of the heavens, ruminating about his first night on Sirok. That’s when he plucked a powerful sword from a secret vault told to him by Nattymama. The sword, he mused, saved his life on a couple of occasions when he skillfully severed the heads of the Sarkany—the three-headed, shape-shifting dragon. “Existo verus ut vestri,” he whispered, followed by, “Be true to yourself. Think of that…that was written on the blade itself, and I didn’t even know it at the time…can’t complain, as it served me well, but this oversized pen knife has done right by me too.”
WHOOSH. At that moment, jarring him from his comfort, he heard a gigantic splash only twenty paces or so from the bow of the boat. The wave it made jostled the little craft as he jumped to his feet. With a wrinkled brow and his jaw hanging low, he peered from side to side. Keeping one eye on the white-capped waves, he reached back to grab his dagger. Bubbles jetted to the surface of the choppy water, and he waited to see if anything would pop up. Only a second later, bobbing before him, the back of a man’s head emerged, gasping uncontrollably for air. Ardently treading water, he turned, and Elias saw who thrashed about before him. He could barely believe his eyes.
“ZOLTAN. Is that really you?”
Zoltan, now exhausted but surprisingly calm, answered Elias. “It is I,” he gasped. “…and I came so very close to landing on the dry planks… of your vessel…right beside you.” Water splashed a few times in his face.
“…but…but I can’t believe it,” Elias said, reacting in amazement.
“Not to be rude, my boy, but I’m not interested in conversing at this point. Be a good man and put down your weapon to throw me a line to welcome me aboard.”
“Oh yeah…sorry.” With a cold slap, Elias was brought back to reality as he hurriedly tied one end of the rope to an iron ring attached to the floorboards of the deck and tossed the bulk of the looped hemp to Zoltan. He wrapped it around his arms, and like a vice, he held on securely with both hands. With somewhat of a struggle, like reeling in a blue marlin, Elias was able to tow Zoltan up and over the edge of the side of the boat. He delivered him safely to the dry deck of the lifeboat. Both Zoltan and Elias collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
“Zoltan, are you alright? What are you doing here? Why is…”
“Not all at once,” Zoltan said, pulling himself up to a seated position, clearing his throat between words and poking his pinky finger in one ear. “I’ve come chasing you, Elias. I sent you here…do you have a blanket in there?” he asked, pointing to the large wooden box.
Elias froze. “Wait, what? You sent me here?” His jaw jutted forward, and he scowled at his guest.
Zoltan kindly smiled and exhaled. He shrugged his shoulders and joined his hands together in a prayerful fashion.
“I knew it. I don’t know why I reacted so surprised. I knew something was up, especially since I found my dagger here, but…why?” Elias said, folding his arms against his chest.
“My good boy, I could see no other way. You have the gift, the donum…now the blanket, if you will.” Zoltan stretched out his shivering hands.
“The donum…the DONUM…this gift is a curse! What else…what else can you tell me?” Elias retrieved a moldy moth-eaten blanket from the box and gently wrapped it around Zoltan’s shoulders.
“If you settle yourself down one iota, I will tell you—you temperamental artists are something else,” he kindheartedly said under his breath.
Elias’ shoulders sank, and he let out a sigh as he sat next to the old man.
“I detected something sinister as the smoke of the kingdom wafted our way,” Zoltan said with an easy monotone. Now for a cup of coffee. Do you have one?”
“What? Coffee? Are you serious? We’re on a banged-up boat in the middle of nowhere. What are you thinking?”
“I see your point,” Zoltan said as he placed his hands one over the other and quickly clapped his upper hand to his lower, at which time a hot pot of steaming coffee and two mugs hovered before them.
“Awesome, Zoltan. You’ll have to teach me that one,” Elias said as he briefly forgot about his frustration with his new and unasked-for adventure.
“Oh, you will learn how and quite a bit more. Now pour the
coffee, and let’s talk,” said Zoltan as a soft, salty breeze gave him a slight stir.
Elias poured the coffee and looked with admiration at his old friend. “So what can you tell me?”
Using both hands to sip from the mug, Zoltan said, “I can tell you very little at this point. I have a morsel of information to share, but not much. Believe me when I say I know very little.”
Short-fused, Elias blurted out, “A morsel. A morsel! You send me here, and YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHY?” You know I was just attacked by a sea serpent and…”
“Good for you, Elias,” Zoltan interjected gleefully, cutting Elias off mid-sentence. “You must have fared quite well as I do not see any hideous blemishes on you, and I don’t see the serpent anywhere,” Zoltan added while looking out to the vast gray rolling waves.
Collecting his thoughts, Elias knew his frayed nerves would lead him somewhere he’d rather keep to himself and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry Zoltan…I’m tired and so… alone.” Elias looked down at his hands, sniffed a few times, and then rubbed his nose. He looked out to the sea as a breeze caught his floppy hair and tousled it in a few directions. “Like I was abandoned until you showed up. I just don’t know what to make of all this. It’s time for me to go home and do what I want to do. I earned it, after all. That’s why I traveled to find you in the first place—to find out who I am and do what I love. And traveling to the Under World to find you and all I did there. I’ve done enough—I’ve earned it.”
“You earned it? Yes, I can see your point. First of all, thank you as you saved me from the clutches of Ordak, and you are quite humble as you set the oppressed folks of the kingdom free. But my good boy, I am sorry to say that, now, those things matter not, at least not for the short run.”
“Huh? I feel my life is out of control.”
“Elias, life is full of the unexpected, but we seem to forget that and think life SHOULD be full of the ‘expected,’ Zoltan said in a very calm but exacting tone. “You are in the middle of, shall I say, a twist and, for that matter, a turn—and perhaps another twist. I must say you are who you are whether you like it or not, and you should think of it as a privilege to be you and grab hold of every moment of your life. It is up to you to make the most of it. Let me pour you another cup of coffee.”
“Okay, okay, but I don’t like it, and I’m not talking about the coffee,” Elias said, sitting back and looking at the sea. It was now quiet as the endless waves that relentlessly wrapped themselves around the boat seemed like a warm embrace as they continued to lap lower against the sides. It was still.
“I know you are unhappy with me, and you have every right to be so, but in the end, you will understand. You will. Trust me.”
Ignoring Zoltan’s words, Elias asked, “So tell me, how is everyone—Kelsa?”
“She is just fine. I managed to redirect both her and Cimbora safely to a place where you will see them soon. Don’t ask me why, as I had to act quickly when Ordak was breathing down our necks—before our dear friends, the Bee People, whisked him away. Oh, that was such a special moment just hearing the hum.” They both laughed and sipped from their cups.
“I think I know the moment—yeah, the exact moment. He almost picked up on what you were doing. I could tell you were doing something, but I had no clue,” said Elias.
“To tell you the truth, I was not so sure myself.” Zoltan winked.
“And the others?” Elias asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“Nattymama and your family are fine. Oh yes, and before I forget, you must understand that time counts differently there versus here. It may seem like only a minute to some but an eternity to others, but this will all be clearer to you later.”
“You haven’t even told me where I’m going.”
“Oh yes. In a moment,” Zoltan replied with a light chuckle. “As far as the others, Lantos and Gaspar are back in their homes, I presume, and Akota is being celebrated by the Seraph people and the former Inhabitants of The Kingdom of Gold. And by the way, passing the ring to him has made all the difference for his people. You have shared the donum, and you have yet to realize your brilliance in doing so.”
Elias smiled, but he quickly looked down at the splintering planks below. Zoltan felt his angst and wanted to comfort him.
“Oh yes, you may long for them and feel you are missing out—but you are not truly missing out as you are where you are supposed to be—that’s the difference. Elias, do not pine for what was or what you think is, nor reach for what you think might be. It is today that matters as we may, most assuredly, count the days we have lived, but we cannot even attempt to count the days ahead of us. Life does, indeed, have a starting point for all, but the endpoint is a mystery. But I dare say, life has a habit of going on whether we like it or not—even if we are in it or not,” said Zoltan.
Elias said nothing but looked fondly at Zoltan, then turned and stared at the horizon. As he nodded, a wide smile came across his face as Zoltan sipped from the mug. At that moment, a sparkling aqua and sapphire-colored dragonfly landed on Elias’ knuckle. Without moving his head, he gazed down at the quiet and majestic creature.
“We must be near land,” Elias’ eyes lit up as he kept still and looked intently at the dragonfly.
“Elias, I believe you are correct. That little fellow reminds me of a story I was once told. A story that others have passed down over many years and, as time so masterfully can do, has gobbled up the author’s name. Would you like to hear a story?”
Elias faced Zoltan and looked into his eyes. He couldn’t help Zoltan’s allure as he looked into the recesses of his pupils. The eyes that have seen a thousand years. The eyes that have looked deep inside of him. Elias nodded and smiled.
“A time not so long ago, there was a pond like any other pond—perhaps like the ones around your home or mine. Do you know the kind
of pond I speak of?”
“Sure, Zoltan, go on.”
“Okay then… in the muddy water under the lily pads, there lived a little neighborhood of water bugs—cute little things. This tiny community lived a simple and predictable life in the murky water. Little concerned them, for the most part, so they were happy creatures. As it is with any community, sadness would come at peculiar times. On occasion, and without warning, a water bug would journey up the stem of a lily pad. To an onlooker in the water bug community, this was not a good sign.”
“So the water bug crawled up the stem of a water lily—how is that sad?” asked Elias.
“Well, Elias, all the water bugs knew was that when they saw one of their own make the climb, their friend or family member would never be seen again.” Zoltan paused and looked away.
“That’s not much of a story. So the water bug climbed up the stem, and a hungry bird ate it. Great story, Zoltan,” Elias said, shaking his head.
“Elias, my boy, that is not the end of the story—far from it. Would you allow me to proceed?”
Elias nodded. “Sorry.”
“Okay then. The water bugs knew they would never see their friend again. They, like you, thought the worst. They thought their friend was dead.
As it so happened one day, and with no warning to his family or friends, the littlest of water bugs felt an overpowering yearning to journey up that stem. However, he was determined to return to the community and tell his family and friends what he found on the other side. They pleaded with him not to go, but he did anyway. He began to climb the stem. When he reached the surface of the water, he journeyed out of the water onto a lily pad. Because of his climb, he was very tired, and the sun felt good. So the little water bug decided he must close his weary eyes and sleep.
During his nap, he changed. When he woke, he had turned into a beautiful aqua and sapphire dragonfly with graceful wings and a slender body created for flying. Therefore, that’s exactly what he did. He soared high above and looked at all below him. He skirted downward and skimmed the surface of the water. He saw new worlds in all its beauty. His perspective was new and fresh—one he thought never existed before that fateful day.
One day, while resting on the arm of a boy, he thought of his friends and family and how they must think he was now dead. It reminded him that he desperately wanted to tell them otherwise and share with them the joy he had found. He hovered over the surface of the water where his family and friends lived, and he could barely make out the little community below. The water was murky that day. He attempted to fly through the surface of the water, but when he tried to reemerge into the water, he could not. He tried and tried and tried to break the surface of the water to no avail. He could see the water bugs below as they continued their simple life. He wanted to explain how he was alive and how wonderful life really was. He wanted to talk about the fulfillment he felt.
Attempt after attempt, he thought differently about telling them and began to understand he was now in the place where he should be. He hoped that their time would come and they, too, would realize that they have wings and one day they would join him. With one last look, he knew what he had to do, and he took to flight, never to allow the past to hold him back. He knew he had to taste the wonders of what today brings.”
“So, I’m the dragonfly?” Elias smugly asked.
“You? Maybe the both of us—our friends, too, perchance. But the story, albeit simple, tells more. Think about it.”
“I see where it is about living and becoming, but it is also about death. Right?”
“Oh, Elias, it is for you to grapple with—let us speak of it no more.”
A huge smooth swell, the size of a modest house, mildly rolled under the lifeboat, placing them high above. As soon as they were at the pinnacle, they descended to a level where all they could see around them was a wall of water. As they evened out, the clouds vanished, and the placid wave slowly moved further away. Many smaller ones rapidly made their presence known as they slapped the boat in all directions. Elias and Zoltan held tight to the sides of the craft until all was calm.
“What was that all about?” Elias said.
“My boy, look over your shoulder, and you will see.”
Elias turned, and a good five or six sea miles before them was an iridescent glow the size of a small island of purples, blues, and red. It twinkled in the bright sunlight. Like the waves, the oddity seemed to be covering something as its hues swayed and fluttered to greens, yellows, and orange. It was a magnificent sight.
“Wow! I’ve never seen anything like it before,” said Elias.
“Nor I…nor I.”
“What do you think it is, Zoltan?”
“There’s nothing like a good mystery than one that is about to unfold in front of our very eyes. Let’s wait and see.”
As they got closer to the spectacle, they noticed that around the edges of the colors and lights seemed to unravel. Specs, as they thought, were drifting away, and as they did, the two saw rocks, trees, and a mountain.
“Zoltan, they’re dragonflies. Millions of dragonflies.”
“So they are. Very interesting,” Zoltan said, leaning toward Elias. “There is something I must tell you.”
I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. Let me know what you think below.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Writing a fantasy trilogy can be tricky. Writers and readers of fantasy think through many questions. Here are a few: does the reader have to start with the first book to make sense of the second and the third? Should I write the series so, if a reader chooses, they could start with the second, or even the third book before the first one? As a fantasy trilogy, should all the stories be clearly connected…a continuation…or just the hero’s next quest?
As a fantasy trilogy, each book is connected as the stories follow the one before. Saying that, I include just enough of the previous storyline so the reader can easily get into the story and begin to connect with the main character, Elias.
What’s this Fantasy Trilogy About?
Without giving away any spoilers, in The Amulet, Elias learns all about himself by way of a journey he must take to truly understand who he is.
In The Rings he realizes a friend is in danger but before he can find him, Elias must harness the powers he uncovered in the first story to not only save his friend, but he learns he must alos save a community that has been ravaged by false promises.
In Book III, The Elixir, Elias has been called to protect the elixir that if it lands in the wrong hands could bring destruction to the planet. What is the elixir?
As each book is truly a stand-alone story, Elias goes from self, to community to saving the world and….
…after all, it is fantasy…but aren’t we all trying to save the world in our own way?
This story best described by this quote by Joseph Campbell.
“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.”
Please read Chapter 1 of The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok. Enjoy!
“…Elias is a character we can all connect with, as he has a good soul and always strives to do right… things like choosing kindness and good over evil…the storyline is a bit unpredictable, which is a welcome relief from a lot of fantasy writing out there right now…I would recommend this book to people who like fantasy stories with lots of fun characters and cool settings…”
ThisKidReviewsBooks.com
1
From the Crevasses
The moment had changed time and space forever. The serpent no longer slithered inside, but for now, Elias knew how it had lived and died.
Alone, he stood atop the mountain of Sirok. His crusade had been long, but it was now over. As he stood tall, he savored his sweet victory for only a moment as it was time to return to what was familiar. It was time to move on, but he knew his experience with the serpent was now a part of him forever.
With only the sounds of a breeze that kicked up the sand where he stood, he looked at the dark and infinite early morning sky. Ribbons of faint light picked up the colors of the Earth and began to fan out. It was like a magnificent painting. The shades of night tinted the light of the morning and then pulled apart so that the darkness faded softly out of sight.
He bowed his head and slipped the amulet back around his neck. He knew all too well what it meant when he felt it against his chest. Smiling, he had thought of the exact time he had realized its worth—when it had saved him.
Elias scanned the area and let out a sigh. He saw the dragon’s sword on the ground, partly covered by debris, and
then he grabbed its grip. He looked it over. Suddenly, the wind whipped up, and it forced him to look away. That’s when he saw his sword. Unlike the other blade, his sword stood upright and pierced the Earth. He gripped the hilt and pulled it from the ground. He held it high and looked at the long metal and thought about the force it commanded. These twin swords that once had unleashed an incredible power were nothing more than two cold steel blades. He sealed them away in the compartment at the base of the arch just as his grandmother had instructed him when he prepared for his journey.
With the toe of his boot, he poked at the dying embers of the campfire. He scooped up the sandy soil of Sirok, covered the coals, and stomped out the edges of the fire. Still feeling the surge of confidence that came with his victory, he felt grateful the fight was over. Elias knew it was time to go home.
As he sucked in a heavy breath, he began to descend the crooked path on the rough terrain to journey home. His faithful dog, Cimbora, was at his side just as he had been during his adventure. Elias no longer feared the Sarkany, the evil dragon, as his fears he would find now lay elsewhere. He hoped never to return to this mountain. Elias’ head was full of thoughts of his family. He had left them many weeks ago when he felt he had no choice. His Papa had made it clear to him that there was no place for artists on a farm. Elias’ grandmother, Nattymama, had prepared him to search for the sorcerer, Zoltan, to help him uncover a peace that he would find only in his heart.
No sooner had Elias turned and walked away; than the ground trembled. Elias stopped. He looked back, and he saw nothing, but still, he paused. Something was there. He just knew it. He looked around but saw nothing unusual. He turned and continued his descent on his path toward the village. Cimbora, however, stood frozen about fifteen steps behind Elias. He stared at the smoldering campfire. He jerked his head, and then he trotted to catch up with Elias. He stopped once or twice and turned to look behind him. Cimbora sniffed the air. Before long, they were far enough down the mountain and could no longer see the camp.
The crevasses in the ancient stones that surrounded the campfire tore open and made each gash deeper and longer. A cold wind whipped from them and swept over the dying embers. Too cold to be of this Earth, more wind streamed out from the rock fissures at the top of Sirok, where Elias had been just moments before. The wind spun itself, caught dirt and grit, and pulled in the cinders from the almost-dead fire.
The wind now lofted gently around the warm coals as the charm was now in play. Once again, the embers sparked into a flame. The flame hesitated briefly, but it flickered in reds and
blues as the wind all but diminished.
The flame became a fire, and the fire became an inferno.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered, and a decisive victory is won.”
This quote by Joseph Campbell has meaning to all cultures over thousands of years…and that’s a long time.
It’s so true and easy to see. Think of the last book you read or even the last movie you saw. Didn’t the main characters find themselves in a situation that blindsided them or one that they just couldn’t refuse—no matter what? They may not have “ventured” from the common day into the supernatural world—or maybe they did—but they left a place that was safe or familiar to a place that was unpredictable, scary, or even so horrifying with no seemingly good way to escape…but they do.
They escape, make a difference, reshape the world, or better yet, they reshape themselves.
Life Imitating Art or …
These are the stories we as the reader or viewer resonate with the main character—the hero. We actually feel we have become the hero. We relate to the “good guy”, or his/her “treasure” is also our treasure. If we don’t feel that way, however, the story goes thud and it doesn’t sit on top of our list of best stories of all time that we’ve read or movies we’ve seen.
Good storytelling, and some not-so-good storytelling, has been around forever—forever. When you think for a moment, most stories are allegories, unless it is, of course, non-fiction. An allegory is a story in which the character or situation symbolizes something greater than the actions taking place. These symbols tell us something about our life or our community.
Fiction Interprets Life
I literally cringe when I am told something like, “I don’t read fiction, especially fantasy. I only read what’s real.” Oh really? What’s real? Our best stories and best storytellers of all time over the centuries were/are all about interpreting life, or what is real, in new and reimagined ways. Think about it. Even non-fiction accounts and biographies are embellished. Fiction gives us more than the black-and-white of facts, accounts, or events. It gives us the texture, color, brightness, and clarity we seek in life.
Whether our day is mundane or extraordinary, we are the hero of our own journey—yep, our story can be pretty cool too. It doesn’t matter if you are 16 or 66, we all have something to share.
Sometimes our story is all about our very private quest to live a life of our own making and to follow our own truth.
We Face Challenges
Sometimes, as Campbell insists, we must let go of the life we are building for ourselves to find the life we are meant to live. That’s our story—that’s you and me. Don’t we venture forth and find a world full of surprises? Life is full of challenges whether we like it or not. It’s all in how we approach that modern-day dragon that makes us truly a “hero” or not.
Nevertheless, we must champion what’s right for us and stand up to the villains and beasts in our own quest. Sometimes that’s a neighbor, a boss, a system, or a belief. When we do this, however, we begin to harness “fabulous forces”, and unfortunately, a “decisive victory” is won—or not. There’s always the next chapter.
Make Believe or Truth?
Fiction in all its pretense and make-believe actually tells us the truth, that is, if you’re open to it. Since the beginning of time, humans have told tales about what they know best—themselves and their struggles. Whether we read about it or live it, you are the “hero”, and every story told or written over the years is about you. It is how humans have overcome tyrants, natural disasters and the voice within that is not always so kind.
Fiction adds a perspective that with some distance, gives an extra light that’s just enough to give us the clarity we seek.
Stories passed down for thousands of years are all about who we are. We are the heroes of every journey in every story over generations. I’m just not sure if life imitates art or if it’s the other way around. I do know, however, that fiction is all about the truth.
In future posts, I will share my thoughts on the Hero’s Journey and its 12 stages to tell a story.
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Stepping into worlds that I am the first to see before all others and being the first one to meet those living there is a joy unlike anything else I’ve experienced. This, to me, is inspired writing, and I want to share this joy with an invitation to readers.
Reading fiction opens a gate to other worlds, whether in the distant past, the here and now, or light years from now.
Fiction creates a path that unites us with a story’s characters; in best-written fiction, those characters resonate with us. Why?
Somewhere in our lives, we have felt the same deep emotion as the character, shared some quirky behavior, wondered the same thought, or had the same experience. Perhaps we identify with the character’s misgivings or flaws and feel a connection.
Reading fiction makes us think and feel differently.
This is why I read. Why do you? If you don’t read so much anymore, pick up something you’re interested in and start today.
Stepping into Worlds of Writing
As a writer, I dig into a part of me that many folks seem to have misplaced over the years—my imagination. As we get older, it seems to me that our creativity wanes. I’m not talking about “old age”, I am talking about when we grow up and become overly serious. Maybe you are like me and cherish your imagination and lean on it throughout your day, and I think this is a very good thing.
When I write, I pull from inside of me a new land or a place never thought of by anyone else. Maybe it’s a place that seems real or one found in an enchanted forest but the bottom line—it’s new and different as we see this place through our own filters. Our mind makes sure it is.
This, to me, is inspired writing, and I want to share this joy with an invitation to readers.
You’ve Got to Have a Reason
What’s my reason for writing? Simply, I am drawn to illuminate the human condition. Without judgment, light pierces the darkness and is freeing. It allows us to explore what it is to be human. I weave these themes into my works of literary fiction and fantasy.
This is why I write. Why do you? If you don’t write, start today with a journal, a note, or a sentence that captures a moment in your day. It can be a text to yourself! Write anything that means something to you.
Words Spark a Whole new World Inside
If you are here reading this post, you probably appreciate the written word at some level. I’m fascinated with books as they transport us, give us an escape from the out-of-control world, or give us a moment to ourselves to stir up our imagination. Maybe you’re here to gain a different perspective, or to learn something new to spark something inside you—hope so.
So Where Does this Idea of “Living Your Truth” Fit In?
To me, it’s like your fingerprint–your truth. The only person we are with 24/7 from the day we are born until the day we die is, obviously, ourselves. Who we are—who we really are—is our truth. Deep down there is no escaping our truth as it is unique, beautiful, and soulful. It is why you are you and as unique as your fingerprint. If you strive to be true to your core and are trying your best to live authentically, reading and writing is a kind of fuel that moves your personal journey forward.
If you read or write from this point of view, you become the story.
The books we enjoy are written by authors who live their truth. Each word is selected with care. It’s easy to see this in each sentence and paragraph they choose. They capture the soul of a character and share them with us. I count myself among the lucky. They allow us to see, hear, taste, feel, and smell the story.
It’s easy to get sidetracked, but that comes with being the “flawed character” in my own story.
If you appreciate fiction, you will agree with me that the “best” characters are flawed. I happen to be the “best” character to lead my own personal quest.
Cutting of Harp Strings is a literary novel and is all about living your truth. My fantasy series, The Elias Chronicles asks the questions we all think about- who am I? What should I do with my powers? What’s ahead for me? Whether it is literary fiction or fantasy, my books are about what it is to be human with all the emotions that make us who we are.
Stepping into Worlds – More Worlds!
This blog may include reviews and mentions of books that inspire. As an author, I will share more about what I have learned and still learning. I will share thoughts, observations, reflections, musings, and stories that help me on my own journey to live my truth. This informs what I read and write. You may find it helpful or entertaining as well. If you value the idea of living your truth as well as reading or writing, I hope you find a flash of inspiration in my reflections.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Be true to yourself. It is only when we follow our hearts that we may truly know who we are and how we should live our lives. As Socrates said, “know thyself”. It’s not so much about having a dream as we all have them. But those dreams may be misguided.
But by listening to our hearts, it can make all the difference.
The Amulet: Journey to Sirok is Book I of the trilogy, The Elias Chronicles. I wrote this with young AND older readers in mind. Rich in symbolism and life themes that resonate with all ages, I wanted to share a story about the heart. When I received the following testimonial, I was deeply touched as this is what I set out to do.
In the spirit of C.S. Lewis, the fantasy is never about the fantastical; it’s about deeply human and moral concerns: identity, voice, virtue, family, and conflict. A joyous, satisfying, life-affirming read!”
Dr. William R. Muth, Editorial Advisory Board: Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy
Below, I am sharing the first seven pages of The Amulet: Journey to Sirok. I hope you enjoy it and join Elias on the rest of his journey. You will find it is YOUR journey too!
PROLOGUE
Legend of Sirok
When the serpent is slithering inside, you will know it, but only with the gift you will understand how it lives and how it dies.” That’s where she always began.
Like many women before her, Nattymama passed the legend down to all who would listen. There were those, of course, who would hear but would not heed her words. Good fortune, however, came to most who listened.
On the spring equinox at the precise time that winter turned to spring, Nattymama dusted off a tattered, yellowed scroll and read aloud to the children in the center of the village. Her account began where the castle now lay in ruins just to the north of the village on a small rocky mountain.
She told her tale as if it happened only yesterday—or for that matter, she told it as if it might just happen again.
Her story was known to many as The Legend of Sirok.
As a young boy, Elias sat front and center and listened to Nattymama, his grandmother, who brought to life the events that she traced back a thousand years. He hung on to her every word and getting through the scary passages took all the courage he could muster. Keeping one eye closed during some scenes, he patiently waited for his favorite parts. He couldn’t get enough of the battle that played out in his head or the amazing way the story ended. For many years to come, he would hear her voice in his head telling the story just as if he was listening to her for the first time. Oftentimes he thought of what the legend truly meant. He had all but committed the ending to memory.
“…centuries ago, a lightning bolt hurtled upward from the center of the Castle of Sirok. The beam split the clear sky. It was then that the thunder rumbled like a stampede of a thousand water buffalos as bloated clouds, the color of dried ox blood, gobbled up the open sky. All was dark—
motionless. One moment passed and then another, but on the third tick of a clock, sheets of rain began to pelt the kingdom. This storm was like no other as something mystical must have been in each and every drop.
“Hours passed and the rain subsided. Within moments it was certain that the downpour had washed away what contaminated the gilded kingdom. Not long after the rainstorm, curls of black smoke billowed from somewhere near the core of Sirok where huge flames casted an eerie glow on the naked kingdom.
“Still masked by smoke, the sun eventually shone through misshapen holes in the black blanket of clouds above. With little warning, what was left of the suffocating smoke all but vanished allowing more threads of light to reveal the stone structures high on the mountaintop. Without so much as a smoldering ember, Sirok was reborn. Unlike its old, garish facade, it now stood in simplicity and beauty.
“A bird sang followed by another. The water was clean, and the air was fresh. The buildings were bright, and the roads led freely in and out. The people saw each other in a new way. The people smiled.
“Filled with joy, the warrior mounted a horse and rode down the rocky path that few dared to travel. At the foot of the mountain, a hundred or so villagers looked on with blank stares. They said little as they witnessed such chaos that only minutes earlier turned the kingdom into something new—something altogether different from what had stood before.
“Galloping down the rocky path, the villagers focused on the mysterious young man. The only sounds one could hear were the pounding of the hooves drubbing on the rocky soil. Thump, thump, thump! The warrior, who they discovered was a mere boy, raced up to where the villagers gathered. He yanked on the reins much to the displeasure of his faithful steed and spoke to the crowd.
‘“What the evil one seized, the people of the kingdom have reclaimed. With this newfound will, we are now free and have washed our hands of our needless guilt. We have nothing to fear as we now know who we are.’”
Nattymama continued, “The villagers standing before the warrior were a field of statues who said nothing, much to the young warrior’s surprise. He spoke again.
“‘Don’t you see? Our misguided ways in Sirok had become a way of life. We believed in the wrong things. We lived behind a veil, but it is a new day for us—and you— as we are the victors.’
“‘So where is he? The evil one?’ a man shouted from the crowd.
“‘He is victim of his own undoing and sealed his fate in the eternal fire of his own making,’ said the warrior. ‘Our resolve is golden. We are the victors,’ said the boy warrior.
“‘An old woman shouted. ‘But what on earth will become of those poor souls who lived in the Kingdom of Sirok?’
‘“Oh, dear woman, you do not understand me. They are free. Free! Their very spirit will make them whole. Sirok will never be the same again; all those who come to know Sirok, to really know it, will be forever changed. Sirok is at our very core.’
“The warrior looked down to his finger that bore a ring that sparkled in the morning light. He thought of the boy who gave up one treasure for another and he lifted his chin with confidence and raised his open palm to the crowd.
“He gazed out to the souls who stood in silence and abruptly tugged on the reins. The stallion reared back on its hind legs and then galloped at top speed up the rocky mountain.”
Chapter 1
Elias
Like a breeze sifts through the morning mist, his brush strokes barely touched the canvas. The bristles of his well-worn brush were thin as many had been lost on previous paintings. This made no difference as his paintbrush was an extension of his fingers. With his right hand, he dabbed a speck of magenta and with his left, reddish-brown.
With a wisp of a stroke his imagination erupted as he envisioned a coiled snake on the other side of a fallen tree. Not far away from the rotting trunk, he created another tale of gypsies who plodded down the narrow trails below the hill. He was bringing meaning to a deep forest as it was taking shape on the scuffed-up canvas. His images were fresh as he blended what he saw in front of him with what he could see in his mind’s eye. It all lived in that moment and began a life of its own on the flat surface.
Elias tilted his head from side to side and inhaled the pure mountain air as he measured his progress. Looking away at the rolling Mátra Mountain range, he could smell and taste a mix of deciduous beech and birch trees that sat on a draft coming from the east. One day I’ll catch this scent in a painting…yeah, I need to figure that out, he thought.
When he had arrived a few hours earlier, the sky was a deep blue with only the faintest veil of clouds on the horizon that played with the smooth and rolling mountain crests. The heavens were now a smear of amber as the spectrum of colors gradually cloaked the sky. This moment was altogether different as he noticed the new colors sharpen above.
Perched high upon a cliff, he was alone as he swapped a blank canvas for what was becoming a kaleidoscope of the Hungarian landscape. This was his haven. He entwined himself with the beauty and love of nature. This was nothing new. From a young age, Elias knew what stirred his heart.
He made his own canvases by stretching remnants of an abandoned gypsy tent over a frame he made from a discarded wooden crate. Nattymama, who was an herbalist, mixed and blended his paints using her own recipe. His brushes were horsehair affixed to slender but sturdy sprigs from a nearby cypress tree. Elias used old forgotten wooden dowels and hinges he found and made them into a sturdy easel. This was all he needed.
Elias’ long brown hair grazed his shoulders. His light brown eyes were striking and ominous to some but opened a gateway to a peace from deep within him. Lean and average height, he could be pensive and appear brooding at times. Although he was private and a little shy, Elias seldom kept his thoughts to himself if others pushed, teased, or tested him in any manner. Like his paintings, he was an original. He was an old soul who was true to his feelings. He, became frustrated from time to time because others didn’t take their time to even try to understand him.
Pausing for a moment, he surveyed the vast and beautiful terrain, and he wondered what he could find if he went deep inside the forest well beyond the trees and rocks that were in plain view. He loved what he painted and allowed his imagination to fill in the blanks, but he wanted to know and experience more.
The forest looked dark, dense, and cold, but that was just an assumption or a guess—he wanted to know for sure. He had never traveled the paths within. Papa cautioned him about the dangers, telling him he could enter at his own risk, but it would be far better to leave the forest alone as there was much to do right around home.
At ease with his own thoughts and feelings, Elias was happy and fulfilled, but he had a darker side too. An inner voice gnawed at him, reminding him that he was different from the others in his family and those in and around the village. What he felt, he shared with only a few, so he expressed himself in his artwork. As he pieced together in his mind who he thought he was and wanted to be, it was clear what caused the special beat in his heart and what created personal joy deep within him.
♦ ♦ ♦
Elias’s home and family farm were close to where he liked to paint. They lived about three kilometers from a small village. With four large rooms and a loft, Papa built their house of white stucco and a thatched roof. Various supporting buildings, including a small barn and a few sheds, completed their home.
Inside their house, the walls were pure white. Large exposed and rough beams separated the living area from the loft, where the children slept. The furnishings were colorful, like his palette, as were the meticulously crafted quilts and wall hangings Mama and other women in the family had embroidered. They delicately stitched them with intricate detail over many generations. One of Elias’ paintings hung over the hearth at Mama’s insistence. It was a warm yet functional home.
They grew wheat. Livestock on the farm included a cow, a few oxen, some sheep, chickens, and a rooster. Mama and Papa were raising three boys and two girls, and Elias was the second oldest boy at fifteen.
Wiping her pale face with floury fingers, Mama stood on tiptoes to reach a bowl from a cupboard. Grabbing the bowl with one hand and tucking it…
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
We’ve all met new people and wondered what might happen next. Will we become friends, or will we remain acquaintances? We may not think about it at the moment, but we have all meet people who will mean nothing to us, or worse, they may become our enemy; that’s life. Like in “real life” self-discovery books explore much more than the character’s relationship with “self” but their relationship with others and society.
I love the chapter I’m sharing below. It’s when Eli meets Aiden. Even when I re-read it, I pick up something new.
Like the characters we meet and journey with them, many times we just don’t have any idea where a relationship is going until it organically unfolds. There have been times that I wished I could check my proverbial crystal ball. Sometimes I have thought “why now” or “why this person”?
We carry baggage to every introduction of every new person we meet and so do they. In good fiction, so do the characters we come to love.
Fate?
Is it fate? I mean who we meet and who we don’t? If we showed up early, late, or not at all what may have we missed out on without even knowing it?
If you’re like me you’ve asked more than once, “what if?”. Do people enter our lives for a reason? Is all this fate?
If you enjoy books that explore the complexities of relationships and the journey of self-discovery, Cutting of Harp Strings should be your next read. Well, at least I hope you to read the excerpt I included below.
First, a little about the story…
Eli’s life is in limbo. He’s searching for a sense of peace but can’t seem to find it. That all changes when he returns many years later to the place where he first met Aiden.
Back those many years ago, Eli and Aiden were polar opposites, but despite their differences, a rare friendship blossoms. A friendship that neither had ever experienced before—or since. Caught off guard, their relationship deepens but like a gut punch, a promise that Aiden made to himself changes everything. Eli is left to pick up the pieces.
In Cutting of Harp Strings Eli artfully weaves together a narrative of friendship, living in the moment, and love.
Self-Discovery Books
It’s a story of self-discovery and will take you on an emotional rollercoaster of joy, heartbreak, and ultimately, utter bliss that, I think, is sure to stay with you long after turning the last page.
Why?
Readers have told me that the story is full of engaging characters and has an evocative and visual plot. They have shared with me that Cutting of Harp Strings is an unforgettable coming-of-age self discovery book that leaves them reflecting on the beauty of true friendship and the power of love.
I’m happy with that…so please read….and let me know what you think.
TWO
August 1973
I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I was sure that Father Meinrad told me this room number. Double-checking, I pulled out of my pocket a small crumpled-up piece of paper where I had written the room number.
“Yep,” I said, aloud.
Turning the knob, I didn’t know what to expect or whom I would find. With hesitation, I wrapped my head around the unwieldy oak door to take a look. No one was there. Creeping in, I dropped my duffel bag and knapsack on the bare tile floor and took a deep breath. Thinking I was intruding, I just then considered going down to the TV room to wait a while but, with a rare moment of certainty, I thought otherwise. After all, this was my room too.
In both oversized windows were two enormous box fans buzzing and gusting winds in different directions. I turned them down one notch and began looking around but disturbing nothing. I began to size up this guy, after all, I would be living with him in this space for the next two school terms. Tacked up on the wall behind his dresser were pictures from magazines of sports stars. I saw Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain among the collage. Tucked partly behind his mirror was a recent news clipping of Mark Spitz highlighting his seventh Olympic gold medal. Fluttering to one side was an obscure obituary of someone named Sir Francis Chichester who at sixty-five, I found by scanning the clipping, sailed around the world alone in his ketch called Gipsy Moth IV.
“Hmmm. How odd,” I mumbled to myself.
I didn’t want to disturb anything, but I wanted to know everything. On his stereo was a new album. “Aerosmith—Dream On…he can’t be too bad—maybe.”
Mountains of books were everywhere except the bookcase in this twelve-by-something room. Zen, art history, and architectural design,
you name it, he had books for all his interests. Unusual bookmarks poked out from the pages. Spoons, Popsicle sticks, and a sock accounted for a few. A tee-shirt, gym shorts, and an assortment of tennis shoes were scattered and strewn about. His knotted school necktie hung from a lamp, and his blue blazer and khaki pants draped from an ancient gray radiator under the windows—I could only wonder what he kept in his closet.
At first glance, the cell, as the monks called them, was a whirlwind of chaotic prep school life, but I sensed there was a kind of order to things. It was an order that, perhaps, only the caretaker might know the code. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Maybe I would care some other day.
On a stack of books on his desk, was his journal. Peeking behind me at the door and then back at the notebook, I laid my hand on its cover. Flipping it open, a sinking feeling came over me and closed it with a slap. Peering back at the door, I shook my head letting out a puff of air. Beginning to act a bit like a voyeur made me feel strange and didn’t like the feeling. Even so, I was intrigued with him and speculated if we would get along. If what he collects, and what he reads, and how he keeps his space was any indication, it would seem this year would be dreadfully long.
Among the mayhem, much to my surprise, he had both beds impeccably made, so I had no clues as to which bunk was his. Feeling like a stranger heightened my anxiety. Wasn’t so sure I wanted to deal with a new way of living, considering I would be spending this year working my ass off to get into Georgetown next fall. Maybe weird, but not knowing where I would lay my head tonight was bothersome. Sleeping was important. With confidence, I chose one and sat down. I slowly leaned back on my elbows just thinking about this hiccup in my life.
BAM!
Without warning, the door flew open nearly blowing off the hinges. I sprang forward. My uneasiness escalated and my heart raced faster than Spitz’s Olympic record times. Like the hinges on the door, I sensed things were not going to be secure the way I was used to, like it or not. I didn’t know why, but my gut told me that I had better take my steps cautiously.
He was dripping with sweat and wearing cutoff jeans and black Chuck Taylor sneakers. Without uttering a word, but with a glance, he shot past me to one of the fans to cool himself. As they were before, he cranked up both fans to their highest setting. With his side and back toward me and with his hands on his hips, I had to notice his chiseled definition. Through the skewed windowpane and the flickering fan blades, strange patterns made by the sun played on his torso. He didn’t seem real. He was about my height of six feet, and that was where the similarities ended. His brown hair was thick with a luster and accents of the summer sun. Seemingly molded with a sculptor’s plan, he had a natural outline of long lashes that framed his blue eyes. I later learned the girls at our sister school loved his eyes and thought he was so adorable. His jaw and cheekbones rolled together in absolute harmony. If there was ever a classic nose, it was his. He, of course, had an even tan. As we all have flaws, his were not visible—that’s enough to piss off anyone.
Rolling his head in fluid rotation, his actions shifted from his self-focus to that of me. As he guided his neck from side to side, he said something that I could not make out.
“What did you say? The fans are too loud, I – didn’t – hear – you,” I said drawing out each word and cupping my ear with my hand.
In a single motion, he switched off one fan and turned toward me. Poking fun, he said, “My – name – is – Aiden. You’re late. The semester started ten days ago. I thought the place was all mine until Father Meinrad stopped me five minutes ago. What a bombshell.” He shook his head.
His choice of words aggravated me, and I responded the way I felt. “Oh, yeah, I’m Eli, and sorry if I’m spoiling your little plans, but are you always an ass?”
“Geez, hold on. Get a grip. I didn’t mean anything by it. I figured it was just too good to be true—that’s all. If you want to know the truth, I was hoping they’d move someone in here.” He totally switched gears and looked at me with a smile. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. Let’s start over—hey roomie. I’m Aiden.”
I couldn’t change my mood that fast and muttered with disinterest something like. “Yeah, yeah—hi I’m Eli, whatever.”
“Okay, that’s a lot better wouldn’t you say?” Aiden asked.
“Yeah, I’m all for fresh starts anyway. I’m here, aren’t I? So, if I may ask, what happened to your last roommate?” I asked with raised eyebrows.
“Absolutely, you may ask. Go ahead and ask,” he said crossing his arms.
“All right already,” I let out a sigh.
“Okay, okay, just trying to add some levity.”
“Uh-huh,” I said rolling my eyes.
“So, anyway, my last roommate was this guy named Brody. He’s still around. He flunked a few classes, and the monks didn’t like that. He went ballistic, but that didn’t have anything to do with his grades because he hates me anyway. He’s got issues and he made me the reason.”
“Oh really—issues?”
“Yeah—issues. I’m over all that and don’t care one way or another,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “Hey, I hope you get good grades—and don’t have issues. I don’t want you, the monks, or your mom or dad coming after me.”
Aiden began to tidy the room and nonchalantly said, “Looks like I did take over the place, but I just didn’t figure on a new kid coming in…anyway, what’s mine is yours. Yep, I know how hard it is to be thrown into strange situations.”
“Don’t worry about it. So, tell me more about Brody.”
“Huh? Nothing more to tell.” He stiffened up and looked away, so I knew he wasn’t going to budge. He changed the subject. “So, Eli, what’s your story? I mean, why are you just getting here now?”
“My mom, well, my mom passed away a few years back…”
“Oh man—didn’t have any idea. Sorry for the crack about irate moms and dads.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, Dad had this thought that to better prepare me for college, I needed to spend my senior year away from home. Literally a week ago we, I mean he, settled on St. Augustine’s. In the last year, he’s hardly been at home, so I think that’s the real reason.
“Cool. It’s all good. You’re here now.”
“Dad says I should be away from distractions. He presumes coming here would help me, you know, with the Fathers watching out for me. He says it would give me an edge getting into college. Yep, he thinks this is my ticket to Georgetown.”
“Well, it sounds like he’s got it all figured out,” Aiden said.
“Yeah, well, you don’t know my whole situation.”
“Oh?”
“They appointed him ambassador to Belgium, and he is going to spend a lot of time out of the country. When he is here, he’s going to be pretty busy—even busier than before. He decided that it would be best if I went to a school like this one. I always wanted to be a lawyer—like him. So, if this place helps me to get into Georgetown, then this is a good place for me to be.”
“Yeah, a boarding school,” Aiden interrupted. “But old Father Meinrad may have put you in the wrong room. I mean, I’m a distraction and I know it. I look for distractions. Like, distraction is my middle name. To me, that’s a good thing. Anyway—you’re here now.”
There was a long and awkward silence. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt myself tense up starting with my toes shooting upward.
“Well, I’m not planning to be around much on the weekends. We’re
only a couple of hours from D.C. so I plan to go home on the weekends when Dad’s there.”
“Hmmm. I think you’ll be here most weekends…anyway,” Aiden said. “There are some cool things to do around here. Lots to explore…and the Shenandoah River is pretty excellent this time of year. That’s where I just came from.”
“No—no. Thanks, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to get my diploma and move on.”
“Yeah, yeah yeah—I hear ya. You’re not some kind of a dork, are you? If we’re going to live together, we may as well try to hang out and have a good time. There will be plenty of time for studying. Didn’t mean to scare you with all that distraction talk.”
I was getting aggravated, and a sigh seeped out. “Hey Aiden, I just don’t need all this right now. Okay?”
“Yeah, man. I hear you. I gave you your first distraction,” Aiden said sarcastically. “You should know, Eli, the Robes might not say it, but they want us to have some distractions. Saturdays are made for distractions. That’s the way they want it. That’s the way we want it too. We don’t see them, and they don’t see us. Today is Saturday and I’m making the most out of it.”
Aiden was more interested in thinking of other things and offered his own perspective. “You may never want to go home on the weekends—or ever.”
“Oh really?”
“Let me tell you…Saturdays…it’s our day. Everyone needs a day off. Even the Robes.”
“You keep saying Robes, what’s a Robe?”
“They’re a who not a what. They’re the good Fathers, you know, the monks—the guys wearing black robes who run this place.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. But you don’t call them that to their face, do you? I mean you say, Father, right?”
“Eli, yes call them Father—for a smart dude, you may be a bit slow on the uptake. The kids here have called them Robes forever, you know, behind their backs. Sometimes they overhear us, and they really
hate it. So, watch out when you use the word because some of them have a fierce backhand slap.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks for the tip,” I said facing my palms out his way and shaking my head.
“Anyway, what I was trying to say was that the coaches, who are not Robes, rotate to keep track of us on the weekends. It’s like one coach per class and we have seventy or so in each class so it’s loose, very loose. I spend time running in the woods. It’s much better than on the track or on campus somewhere. It’s just better.”
I didn’t think he would ever shut up. When he did, I wasn’t sure what to do, but at least now, I knew the slang for priests. Yep, I didn’t think this arrangement was going to work out.
“Well, that sounds great and all, but I think I’ll pass. I’ve never been much for hiking or exploring, so count me out.”
“Once I get you off-campus, you’ll see.”
“No, I don’t think so. Don’t think it’s going to happen. Being close to the dorm is fine by me, and anyway I think I’ll be spending time in the library getting ready for college.”
“Sounds like your dad, I mean you have a plan, but I don’t know… the Robes won’t just let you study all the time. I’m telling you.”
Aiden seemed to have an answer for everything, so I thought I should change the subject. “Well, I’m going to try out for the basketball team.”
“Cool. All right. We do have something in common. Yeah, b-ball—cool.”
Somehow, we managed a moment of quiet. Thank God. Aiden leaped backward onto a bed. He landed squarely in the middle of the mattress while clasping his hands behind his head. Finally, I got my answer and now knew which bed was mine. So, I began to collect my
duffel and knapsack, threw them on my bed, and unzipped all the compartments. Out of the corner of my right eye, I could tell he was interested in what I was doing. Using my body to shield my belongings, not that I had anything to hide, I unpacked. Just wasn’t ready to offer the same courtesy Aiden had extended to me earlier.
Seeing all I needed to see, I decided that this arrangement was awful and was ready to talk to Father Meinrad. He told me earlier in the day that if I didn’t think my roommate would work out, switching rooms was not a problem. He said that several students were without a roommate. A guy named Luis, I remembered him telling me, who lived right down the hall didn’t have one. Yep, Father and I needed to talk.
After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Aiden lost interest in what I was doing and blurted out, “Okay, didn’t mean any harm. Sorry to intrude.”
He bolted up from his bed, yanked off his worn sneakers, and peeled off his shorts. He grabbed a towel hanging from a closet doorknob, sniffed it, and he left the same way he entered. He headed down the long hall to the bathroom for a shower. Just in time, as I was ready to punch someone.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Without seeking it, profound spiritual growth can arise in the most unexpected places—from a child’s reaction, a stranger who enters our lives, or even our neighbor; thus, the Zen master next door.
Zen stories and philosophies transcend all spiritual belief systems. Our belief systems are quite similar; however, some individuals don’t always recognize this. I’m not sure why. However, because of these similarities, connections, and integration of philosophies we share, I decided to write about them. I wrote short stories called parables for enlightened everyday living. Each story focusing on seventeen significant philosophies that capture Zen in our everyday lives and are present in most belief systems. You may see yourself or someone you know in these parables. I hope so.
During the publishing process, Daniel Pink, author of A Whole New World and many other books, said:
“What an inspiring way to learn about our very soul, The modern parables in Zen Master Next Door are captivating and left me wanting more.”
I can’t review my own book so I will leave that up to others, but I certainly enjoyed writing it. Here’s one Zen story from Zen Master Next Door (3rd and latest edition).
Enjoy!
EDDIE ZEN
The energy of the mind is the essence of life.
Aristotle
Listen to the voice of nature, for it holds treasures for you.
Huron—Native American
When knowledge becomes tattered, wisdom springs.
Eddie Zen
Start with the truth. At least that is what he told Judd, his neighbor of nearly a decade.
“Answers to questions most important to humanity always lie within us. Come on, certainly you’ve heard that before,” Eddie said with a frothy tone. He started conversations this way, bypassing any normal greeting.
On a warm breeze that filtered through the trees in Eddie’s front yard, arrived the rich fragrance of juniper from Judd’s garden next door. Eddie’s yard, now speckled with boxes, chairs, tables and bookcases, was once a pristine postage stamp-sized lot but now resembled a yard sale without the swarms of bargain hunters.
Judd dropped by on a lark, not knowing that his elderly neighbor was moving that very day. But that was common practice for both men. Judd was unaware of much around him, while Eddie was unpredictable at best.
Replying to the older man, Judd nodded his head. “What’s going on here? Where are you going?”
“I’m moving on…just moving on. But don’t worry about that, because I’m trying to give you something to think about. Think about it, the answers you search for come from wisdom that’s passed down through the ages. I repeat, in case you aren’t catching on, it’s about wisdom—w-i-s-d-o-m.”
Giving in as he usually did, Judd said, “All right already— so where does it come from? This wisdom.”
“Good question,” Eddie said, drawing in a slow breath while scratching his day old stubble. “It started with our first ancestors and flowed
on year after year, decade after decade and century after…well you get my point,” he said squinting as he looked to the gray, hazy sky, thick with summer’s humidity. “Anyway, although this wisdom has been fermented like a good chardonnay many times over for many years, it is now tucked away. Seldom does modern man give it much weight.”
Eddie sat down on a dusty, wooded trunk and yanked off his horn-rimmed glasses. He held them up, and he peered through the lenses, and put them back on. Taking a long, deliberate breath, he continued. “Today we rely more on science at one end of the spectrum or blind faith at the other. Wisdom is overlooked and seldom part of our decision-making. Don’t you think?” Judd obliged nodding his head.
As the movers in the house packed Eddie’s belongings, it dawned on Judd that he was always drawn to Eddie’s musings and now seeing him leave the neighborhood, an instant sense of emptiness plopped in his abdomen. With downcast eyes, Judd told him that he wished he had taken the time to get to know him—really know him.
Eddie was a rather imposing but gentle man. Standing a hair over six feet tall, he was slender and looked like a man ten years his junior. He always donned frayed oxford shirts that draped on his torso like bed linens on a grandmother’s clothesline. His silver hair was thick for a man of any age, impeccably combed and parted to the side with the straightest of parts.
With an easy smile and radiant disposition, Eddie unwittingly drew Judd to him and always did. Despite his incessant ramblings, Judd knew Eddie was a singular sort. A ready smile punctuated Eddie’s discourse.
“Ah, you know me well enough. Don’t worry about that. Get to know yourself! Get to know others and learn from them. Get to know the guy next door. This is what I’m talking about,” he told Judd, springing from his seat and walking to a lopsided pyramid of boxes.
He began fumbling through a crumbling, corrugated container. For a moment, Eddie said nothing. He looked perplexed as he shuffled papers in the container. Losing his concentration from moment to moment, he paused as he examined an ancient fountain pen and a softball-sized sphere of rubber bands.
“Are you looking for something?” Judd asked.
“Yes. Why, what does it look like I’m doing?” he said with a sigh. “It’s in here somewhere. I want to give you something I started and I insist you finish it. What I’m looking for will show you what I mean.”
Eddie continued to rummage through boxes. As he did, dust emanated from each box flap, filling the immediate area with a ripe tang.
Eddie stopped for a moment, looking up without his signature gleam and paused. “You’ve always been kind to me and listened as I’ve spouted off at the first moment you’ve gotten home from work. You have been kind enough to speak with me while you’re out in the yard. Even at last year’s Fourth of July block party, I pulled you away from the beer cooler to throw you a thought, and you were there with a catcher’s mitt to snare it. Whatever I threw out there, you were willing to give it the kind of attention I was looking for.” He smiled and nodded as if proud of a son.
Judd, always neatly dressed and clean-shaven, was in his late thirties, had a muscular physique and short-cropped blonde curls with steely blue eyes. His usual look was a golf shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops.
Married to Ashley for nine years, they had two children. Rarely taking time to think beneath the facade of many issues, Judd spent time taking care of his young family with little time for introspection. He wasn’t so different from most folks. Eddie knew this.
Judd could not imagine what he was hunting for, and as Eddie rifled through dusty boxes, he suddenly felt empty-handed, wanting to reciprocate. He thought of nothing of worth that he could conjure up to give the old man. This worried him. Judd told him that.
Preoccupied while looking through his belongings, Eddie gently gestured to him, waving his hands in the air while saying, “You’ve given me plenty. But, I guess you don’t realize that, now do you?”
Before Judd could utter a syllable and from calm to excitement and without warning, Eddie blurted, “Ah, yes. Eureka! Here it is!”
Before rescuing the gift from the box, Eddie peered down at the prize. There was a glow about his eyes. He took a breath and pulled it up and out. As if it was a gold brick, he handed Judd a ream of yellowed paper, tattered and dog-eared at many of the edges. Tinged with a scent of mildew, what Eddie held, Judd knew, must be significant. As Eddie flipped through and peered at many of the pages, Judd saw that what he was handing him was a collection of handwritten stories.
Taken by the gesture, Judd asked, “Why are you giving these to me? I mean, this looks like a lifetime of work. You ought to keep it.” At best, he was bewildered.
Eddie put his hands in his pockets and, leaning forward on his toes, explained, “I don’t need them where I’m going. Besides, my hands can no longer tolerate holding a pen for very long. Perhaps you can read them and put them to good use in some way. Maybe it will get you off your duff and get you to write something too. You know it is in you. It’s a gift…by the way, they’re parables.”
Overheated from his search, Eddie sat in a recliner under a maple tree in his front yard, waiting to be loaded onto the moving van. He looked up intently at the massive tree boughs, as his thoughts accompanied the expression of resolve on his face. He motioned to Judd to pull up a kitchen chair from the mountain of boxes on the other side of the slate walkway, and to join him.
In the fashion of Socrates dispensing philosophies under an olive tree, Eddie began to expound. “When we read stories, you know, it is natural for us to pull personal meaning from them. This in itself is a good thing. Don’t you think? Writers like it when this happens. As I like to think, it may lead to introspection—I like that word. But at the very least stories help us think. Are you with me?”
Judd was a trifle confused. “So what is it all about? I mean, you always tell me that the answers are inside of each of us. I bet that’s all here. The answers you have found in you?”
With his long, thin finger pointing to his own chest, Eddie answered. “Precisely. I did say that, but it doesn’t mean I know all the answers. In complexity, there is simplicity. In simplicity, there is complexity. Answers are not always the result of equations or any logical order—if so, we would unfetter all the mysteries, be superhumans, and not, well, just humans. There is nothing perfect about any one of us. I however, think that stories, not just mine, are like beautiful sunflowers. They hold beliefs and values that somehow creep and root themselves into most civilizations. Like a tall sunflower staring us in the face we sometimes still ask—so where’s this flower?”
The workers were moving his life’s possessions with such disturbing ease. “This move shouldn’t be this easy and this fast,”Judd thought.Eddie saluted the movers as they filed by him. Except for Eddie’s recliner, all of his belongings that once covered his yard were securely in the truck.
In spite of the commotion around him, Judd began to think of all the times he and Eddie had talked and he was only now beginning to connect the dots like the excuses Eddie made by walking over to Judd’s house, ringing the doorbell to borrow a dictionary. “Eddie needs a dictionary? How come I didn’t think that was odd,” Judd scolded himself. He thought of the times that Eddie would show up with a beer in hand when Judd cooked burgers on the grill, or wanted to borrow a snow shovel in May. These were times that Eddie had something to say. Sometimes Judd listened and other times he was preoccupied. “I wish I had listened all those times,” Judd thought.
Eddie continued, “We’re all the same. The mores and ways of life are probed and pondered today just as they were by those who resided at Stonehenge or by the ancient Greeks, or the Bushmen of Africa or the contemporaries of Confucius, or the greeter at Wal-Mart or the neighbor over the fence, or me or you. Did I leave out anyone? These truths are worthy of another look, don’t you think? Perhaps two or three more looks. That’s all I’m saying.”
As Judd looked away for a moment and turned back to answer, Eddie seemed to have vanished. Scanning the yard, Judd noticed that Eddie was slowly climbing the front steps of his home to determine the progress of the workers. Judd stayed, enjoying the warmth of Eddie’s lingering presence. Although it was getting close to noon and hotter than ever, he was content as he imagined what the old man was all about. He began flipping through the ragged paper and found himself easing back into the recliner. He thumbed through the musty pages, reading snippets of different stories and passages. He found himself mesmerized.
Judd, put the bundle of papers on his lap, took a breath, got up, and began to search for Eddie. More questions swirled in his head.
Eddie walked to the rear of the house, orchestrating the movers. Judd caught up with him and followed.
After a moment, Eddie pulled himself away from the mundane and in awkward silence, walked to the main staircase six feet from his opened front door. He sat down on the eighth step. He crossed his legs at his bony ankles and placed his graceful hands to the back of his head. Sunbeams shot through the door. He watched the workers as they swiftly moved in and out of his house.
Eddie’s home was empty. He stood and then moved with a lightened gait, as if a burden melted away. He walked outside and down the brick stoop one last time.
Judd picked up his pace to join him in the front of the house. The movers were busy repositioning the recliner in the recesses of the truck. It was done. With a yank of a canvas strap, the back door of the truck slammed shut. Just like that, his belongings were stowed away, never to return.
Eddie shouted, “Remember to deliver the furniture and boxes that are marked in red and send the rest on to the Salvation Army.” The men nodded and Eddie waved them on. He turned back to Judd.
“My parables, if you can call them that, are an attempt to show that there is meaning in all the ordinary things we do. Life lessons can be learned wherever we are, whether in a bustling city, on a farm in America’s heartland, or in a suburban neighborhood. There is much we can learn from the taxi driver, the stock broker, the dairy farmer and the neighborhood hairdresser…oh yeah, I learned a thing or two from her over the years,” he said smugly. He sighed, placing his hand on Judd’s shoulder. “In a way, they teach us who we are. Wisdom is not only right in front of us—it is within us. The truth that evades us lies within. It always has.”
The moment fell silent. Eddie turned to look at his house one more time. He faced Judd and with a toothy smile he said, “I’m ready.”
A moment later, he walked to his car and got in. Still smiling, he waved to Judd. Judd reciprocated.
“I’ll visit,” Judd said.
“No you won’t. You don’t know where I’m headed. Do me one better.”
“What’s that?”
“Look inside and add the next chapter.”
With that, Eddie drove away, not waiting for his neighbor’s response. Judd’s mind was empty and he said nothing. In solitude, he was motionless. But when Eddie was out of sight, his mind was now replete, and silently bade him a farewell with a promise.
“Goodbye Eddie. I will.”
The Kingdom of God is within you.
Jesus
Be a lamp to yourself. Be your own confidence. Hold to the truth within yourself, as to the only truth.
The Buddha
In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after the Truth.
Gandhi
Seek not good from without; seek it within yourself, or you will never find it.
Epictetus—second century
Ask questions from your heart and you will be answered from the heart.
Omaha—Native American
*****
Sometimes it takes storytelling to convince any spiritual being what he or she should already know. Truth comes from within. Simple? Maybe, but truth leads to wisdom, which is the tenuous center amid science and faith. What is truth? Who is truth? We must pause to discern how truth is real and part of our daily lives. But it is not enough to know oneself. As truth lies beneath our bones, so it lies beneath our neighbor’s bones as well. Simple?
*****
Want to read more parables of enlightened everyday living? Here’s the book.
What did you think of Eddie Zen? Let me know in the comments below.
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
“Love is a strange thing, and I yearn for it once more. I don’t need to give it much thought, I just need to give it sunlight and space to grow–to run in a field of tall grass and be free.”
Photo by Victoria Prymak
This is a quote from my novel, Cutting of Harp Strings. It is perhaps my favorite quote from all my books. Apparently, it is appreciated by others too.
As a writer, it’s incredibly rewarding when others share a quote or excerpt from my book. They, of course, cite where they found the quote and name me as the author. Sometimes people will mention this in a discussion or post it on their social media. This shows me that others, and not just me, appreciate the quote. Among the throngs of authors, I see this as a major “win.”
Quite frankly, it’s exhilarating.
A few weeks ago, however, I discovered that this quote was used on a social media account, and not only did they not cite my book or me, but they used it as a personal quote – verbatim. Sure, I know this wrongfully goes on all the time, but it was a real shocker for me—at least give me some credit I thought. I was steamed.
I mean this is my work and it depicts the soul of my novel—my soul.
It felt like someone reached into my chest and pulled out my heart. Was I overreacting? Maybe. But I don’t think so because a writer chooses their words carefully. Words matter as does their arrangement. It’s like the notes of music. This novel, too, was thirty years in the making.
I politely contacted the person and asked them to credit me with the quote. I didn’t ask them to remove it but to merely cite me. That was about four weeks ago, and it is still up as if it is their quote.
But you know what?
The very day I contacted the person, I decided to think differently. I decided that it was okay— not that I wanted to continually encounter this situation, but because this person was so captivated by my words that they wanted to use them for themselves.
Because of this shift in perspective, I immediately felt good. It was weird – like magic and I felt a surprisingly warm feeling wash over me. I imagined they might have read the book, and this passage had landed in a spot in their heart where they wanted it to remain close. They wanted it to be part of who they were. Then I thought…
Doesn’t every writer love when their readers become one with their story? I do.
In a way when I read the quote in light of this event, it grew a hundredfold. It became my elixir – and the reader’s as well.
Here is the full quote found in my novel. If you use it in some way, and I hope you do, please let folks know where you found it.
“It’s a maze—life that is. Sometimes, for moments here and there, it appears otherwise with clean lines and crystal facets. Not often. Life is more than what I thought. And I knew this all along but wasn’t willing to believe in myself—to believe me. Aiden showed me, but it was for me to act. Love is a strange thing, and I yearn for it once more. I don’t need to give it much thought, I just need to give it sunlight and space to grow—to run in a field of tall grass and be free.”
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Coming-of-age or bildungsroman? When you hear the word “bildungsroman” what’s your initial thought? You probably have a good idea of what “coming-of-age” means in literature. For most, bildungsroman is not a term we use or hear regularly. If I had to guess, very few people know much about it. I was among this group until a few years ago as I used the term coming-of-age broadly. However, there are distinct differences between coming-of-age and bildungsroman novels.
The origin of the genre is German, where the word “bildung” means “formative” and the word “roman” means “novel”. Since bildungsroman novels are among my favorites I know plenty of others appreciate this genre. However, it is safe to say that most of us might not recognize the term so I thought I would share some thoughts.
So what is a Bildungsroman?
A bildungsroman is a coming-of-age story highlighting a young person’s psychological and moral development. Typically written in the first person, the protagonist shares their journey to maturity.
You might say that sounds like just another coming-of-age novel. A bildungsroman is always a coming-of-age story whereas not all coming-of-age novels are bildungsroman. A bildungsroman delves into themes of self-discovery and the search for identity. A protagonist’s inner journey including their values, spirituality, and understanding of the world is always a part of the bildungsroman.
A bildungsroman delves into themes of self-discovery and the search for identity.
Coming-of-Age versus Bildungsroman
A coming-of-age novel is a broader designation that oftentimes refers to any novel in any genre that explores the experiences and challenges of a character’s journey from childhood to adulthood. Coming-of-age stories emphasize growing up or coming to terms with the world. The operative phrase is coming to terms with the world. The way I look at it, in a bildungsroman, the protagonist is coming to terms with their view of the world that is found deep within them. As an actual genre or sub-genre, depending on who you talk to, these stories specifically focus on the protagonist’s psychological and moral development.
Although there are others, the major difference between a coming-of-age and a bildungsroman novel is that the protagonist mostly grapples with external challenges. In a bildungsroman the protagonist’s challenges are deep inside of them regardless of where they are in the physical world. Although in some coming-of-age stories, the protagonist struggles with internal issues, their loss of innocence may center more around relationships, sexual awakening, death and mortality, family issues, or social justice concerns.
The Structure of a Bildungsroman
Loss – the protagonist endures a profound emotional loss
Journey – because of their loss, the character embarks on a journey. The journey can be physical in nature, metaphorical, or both. They search for answers to what gnaws at them with hopes to better understand the world and how they fit or must navigate in that world.
Obstacles/conflict and growth – But as the story continues, like forcing a square peg in a round hole, the protagonist makes decisions that are not always the best. They eventually, willfully or not, resolve themselves to accept society’s ways.
Maturity/enlightenment – Psychological growth and change lead to, maturity. Many times the protagonist helps others who are on the same journey.
Although I have found the same books on lists for both bildungsroman and coming-of-age novels, the following, I feel, seem to be good examples of bildungsroman novels:
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
What do you think? Are all of these books bildungsroman? Coming -of-Age? What books would you add to the list? Which ones would you remove?
A Review of Sorts – some of my brief thoughts: A Separate Peace by John Knowles
One of my favorite books in this category is A Separate Peace. I first read it at age fifteen and it made an indelible impression on me. It inspired my novel, Cutting of Harp Strings many years later.
The novels I love evoke strong emotions and provoke thought. A Separate Peace does this for me as I experienced each moment alongside Gene during a poignant period of his life. He navigates a friendship—a love—that is difficult for him to understand. I know he would do anything for a “do-over” and I empathize with him and Finny.
Gene, the protagonist, tells the story of when he was a boy full of jealousy and self-doubt to an adult who learns from his mistakes and finally accepts the consequences of past actions.
With World War II as a backdrop, Knowles compares and contrasts both societal and personal loss of innocence. Gene struggles with his complex relationship with his roommate, Finny, as the immorality of war casts a shadow on all they do.
A good book is worth reading many times, and I have done just that. Each time, I learned something new about this once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Like all relationships, it is full of joy and pain. Knowles was a master at lulling us into what seems to be a simple and innocent adventure but is, in truth, a deep and dark journey within. It reminded me that we must always search for the truth. Finding it, however, can be elusive; we may hear the voice within, but listening to it is another matter.
I hope your next read is a bildungsroman. I hope to hear from you.
NOTE: This is a great source for more information on writing – Master Class
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Over thousands of years, many of the greatest minds have grappled with the meaning of life. Questions abound regarding life’s origin, reason, purpose, and value. Still other questions persist, such as why we exist or what is life’s significance.
So Many Questions
We’re here already, so why the question of origin? All the “greats” over the millennia haven’t provided an answer to this or any of the questions that have plagued humanity about the meaning of life.
Why do we exist? Again, I’ll take the easy way out and say, does it matter? If we knew would we be doing things differently? Would we think differently? Maybe, but probably not. A brief history lesson will show that humans haven’t changed much over the years in this regard.
Photo by sander traa
We develop new tools – from a slingshot to automatic weapons or a printing press to a PC, but a slug moves faster than our progression of thinking and feeling about things how we treat others and ourselves.
What would we do if we knew?
Say we find out that we exist to help others of our species live a better life. Knowing that would we automatically do it? I’m talking about everyone since this is “why we exist”. We eat and drink to sustain life and everyone will do that, but wold everyone be in sync to do other things? I’m thinking no.
As far as life’s significance, well this seems arbitrary. That’s like wondering why we desire love. I’m not sure we need to analyze the significance of life or love. How about we just explore it? Life and love deserve it.
What about the many questions about life’s reason, purpose, and value? Well this is up to us. S this leads me to a far better question for each of us to ponder and that is:
So what is the meaning of OUR life?
With the question I pose, perhaps we can look at our past for clues, but spend most of our time looking at our present. Our present may then, in turn, inform our future.
“The unexamined life is not worth living.” – Socrates
We learn about ourselves through our experiences and attempt to find meaning. We are reflective by nature, but we often overlook or are unwilling to find meaning in our introspection. Just look at history and how we, humankind, seldom heed its message. We seem to like our olpitical existence.
We Decide
Like the skin of an onion, if we peel back the layers of man’s interpretation of how others should live, we may see ourselves as we truly are. It is up to us to do this as no one will do it for us. We shouldn’t expect anyone else to give us OUR answers, nor should we accept their decrees of other that tell us what’s meaningful to us individually.
What I find meaningful to me should be celebrated and not fit into some ancient scheme or blueprint.
Acceptance, affirmation, and intimacy are all strong needs we all have. Our existence is about the many connections we all experience. As an example, we have memories that are unique to us. Seldom does another soul value, or even remember, certain memories that we hold dear. They are ours and live in our very core. They are a record of our life. Among other aspects of our life, memories help create meaning in our life.
The moments of our lives, when collected and strung together like the choice words of a poem tell the tale of our lives and give it meaning. It’s not just the big moments but the tiny ones to
You Naturally Smile
Think of what you value, and an experience attached to that value. You naturally smile. We are made up of fun, somber, intimate, scary, insightful, bizarre, and mystical moments that all enliven who we are. That’s where we derive our own meaning.
Some folks think we must engage in some noble purpose, and this gives our life meaning. I like to keep in mind that, again, I decide what is “noble” and do not need others to judge the way I decide to give meaning to my life.
I am the only person who I have been with for every second of my life from the moment I was born until the moment I die. No one knows me or you better than me and and no one knows you better than you.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
I don’t say that fantasy is a good read because I wrote a fantasy series, but because it just is, and I’ll share with you why I say that.
But first we should take a step back…
Back in the day, whenever that was, there were only four genres in literature: fiction, nonfiction poetry, and drama. Now we have so many variations that you’d be hard-pressed to come up with a true number of literary genres. I’ve seen lists well into the fifties.
In my research, there appear to be eleven popular genres, and they are: Romance, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Paranormal, Mystery, Horror, Thriller/Suspense, Action Adventure, Historical Fiction, and Contemporary Fiction. Poetry and Drama don’t even appear on this list anymore.
Eighteen Fantasy Sub-Genres
According to Masterclass, there are eighteen Fantasy sub-genres. About thirty-six to forty percent of all genres are fantasy. Clearly folks like to read fantasy! My series includes elements of both High and Low fantasy with that of Sword and Sorcery and some Crossroads fantasy.
Photo by jplenio
“Don’t like Fantasy?” I Just Can’t Believe It
When folks share with me that they don’t like fantasy, I’m always a bit puzzled. Fantasy at its core is the reflection of us–of them. Stories of the supernatural, the horrific, and ones that focus on a hero or superhero have sustained, bedazzled and taught humanity since the beginning of time.
Belief systems mirror fantasy and fantasy mirrors belief systems.
Belief systems mirror fantasy and fantasy mirrors belief systems. I, of course, respect that they don’t “like” fantasy, but I often respond that if they want to learn more about themselves and all of humanity, they might just do so reading fantasy as well as finding a sense of wonderment and awe.
But Many Find Fantasy a Good Read
Fantasy readership has exploded in the last few decades. According to a recent study I found on New Book, a significant portion of fantasy readers span the generations.
Fantasy readership statistics show that a significant portion of readers are young adults, with many over 18 years old. Many started reading fantasy at around 15. The average age, however, is 42 and a slight majority (55%) is female. No matter what age a fantasy reader is, no reading level is out of bounds. Trends show a growing adult audience that is reading young adult fantasy. That’s good for me as I like reading and writing fantasy that may be geared to younger readers.
Around 46% of those surveyed favored fantasy as their preferred genre. Many who read fantasy enjoy elements of escapism and adventure.
Don’t Older Folks Read Fantasy?
I’m an older reader and writer of fantasy and it bothers me that my demographic doesn’t appear in this study or others. I can’t believe folks around my age don’t read any sub-genre of fantasy. It amazes me that I grew up in a time of lots of fantasy and sci-fi in books, on TV as well as in the movies. Dune, The Lord of the Rings, Brave New World, the Lion Witch and the Wardrobe, Out of the Silent Planet, and A Wrinkle in Time were some of the popular reads. On TV and film there was Star Trek, the Twilight Zone, The Planet of the Apes, Willie Wonka among mnay others.
So why do older readers shun fantasy? I sometimes think that the older we get we grow further apart from admitting we need a superhero or appreciating the magic that at one point was firmly secure in our imagination. Escaping int a story or going on a mystical adventure has been replaced with stressing out over current events and worrying about the future or regreting the past. This has a way of draining our soul. That’s the last thing we need. We need more fantasy!
Fantasy is a Good Read as it Does it All
Fantasy does it all. It entertains and by doing so, we see our reflection in the characters. We relate to their values, and we are there with them on the adventure. The story gives us pause as we think if that could be us one day. Sometimes we see that it is us already good or bad. In fantasy there is always an element of hope–of something greater.
Fantasy at its very core is a very human story. That’s why fantasy is a good read.
For the older reader, learn from the youger reader. I say that we yearn for magic, mystery and marvel and we shouldn’t let it slip away. Fantasy at its core is a very human story. It gives us an adventure of a lifetime. It has a way of teaching us something about humanity, our universe and our very existence even when we don’t look for it.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
The Time We Have
If you have read any of the books or watched any of the movies, you may agree that The Lord of The Rings is a powerful saga. Yes, I said it—saga. Tolkien was masterful with the entirety of the story but what I find wondrous is that all the bits and pieces along the way are full of flavor and are stories in themselves. They are powerful all on their own.
The quote above is part of a brief conversation between Gandalf and Frodo. If you haven’t read the books or watched the movies, you may still appreciate its depth as it is rich with meaning whether in or out of the story.
These fifty-one words are all about humanity’s age old divide between those who seek power and those who seek to live the life they were meant to live.
The powerful, many times, feed off the destruction of their own making only to disrupt humanity to, well, gain more power. I’m in the camp that power based in love, compaaion and insight lifts humanity.
Each sentence in this quote is revealing. this is how I look at it.
Frodo says… I wish it need not have happened in my time
Although Frodo is a Hobbit, he expresses a very human feeling we all, at some time feel. Every so often this feeling results from a natural phenomenon like an earthquake or a hurricane, but most of the time, it results from man and his intentional actions. War would be a big one as would dehumanizing those who are not like us.
History is full of men who overreach to claim power and control. By doing so, those who seek to live their lives the best they can and how they see fit are whipped into colossal, turbulent waves. They get caught in the wake of the murky froth of the power-hungry and their dark and self-serving decisions.
Humanity and everything about how we live is dualistic. We have good, so there is bad; we have love, so there is hate; we have the rich, so we must have the poor, and so on. Power without love, compasion or insight exists to prey on the weak…the poor…or those deemed as unworthy.
What is imagined in the mind can become a reality.
The above neutral statement is easily corrupted when the cunning manipulator is searching for a “treasure” that benefits the few. If only those who sought power also sought good.
Gandalf follows his statement and says…So do I
These three words show empathy. The experienced and wise wizard has seen much in his long life, but it is with his experience that his empathy flows naturally. More importantly, it is soothing—it is healing.
He is reafirming in these three words. He offers, as all good teachers do, a broder view with what he says next.
…and so do all who live to see such times.
We search for answers — for perspective. As long as humans have roamed the planet they have, from time to time, created devatation. The wise teacher reminds young Frodo (and us too) that we are not alone.
But Gandalf goes on to say…But that is not for them to decide.
When we realize that most of us feel the same way, our imagination, too, may shape what is next. With the hard truth, Gandalf moves Frodo away from taking a turn into self-despair as self-despair is exactly what the powerful want from those they wish to control.
He helps Frodo to focus when he says,
…All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.
When outside forces suffocate us, will we find the spark within us to take charge of our next step…and then the second step… and then…
Simply, we are not alone. We always have help. We always have hope. And with that, it is us who decide what to do with the time that is given us.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
