Greasy Thoughts,.....

Firstly,let me just say,that ever since i could read,be it about five children who owned a island,or seven who solved mysteries or for even a girl who also found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time,I wanted to write..(i also attribute this interest to the fact that all the genes that code for "excelling at sports" somehow ended up in my sister.)Fueled by a overly vivid imagination,i always set about on a quest to write my own novel(sucking at sports left me with a lotta free time u know..).Then,armed with my pen(t'was a "china pen" as they called it,basically a ink pen china made..the gold cap made me feel important) i would set about scribbling on a old pad.The title generally consumed so much time that my most of my ambitious undertakings ended there."The Adventures of Leo Longmane " was going to be a magnificently breathtaking description of various pursuits of a leonine character with a wild mane of hair(the title doesn't leave a whole lot for guessing does it??....should also explain the unruly growth on my head).I would put myself in his place,brave,fearless, i would set out from my woodland kingdom,and into the horizon,to gather allies in the neighboring nations against a growing threat from the kingdom Arkahnon or something LOTR-ish sounding like that.My stoic face even while facing the most hellish creatures would make me somewhat of a legend.My wild hair billowing in the wind would strike a cold fear in the hearts of my enemies.My roar,sheer terror....and so i would walk around,talking to myself,on the road,pursuing invisible foes and striking them down,whenever i entered a slightly deserted lane.But all these thoughts never found themselves on paper,i always feared that the intense escapades of my character wouldn't be as intense if i tried to confine them in the limits of my vocabulary.And so ended my story,Longmane died a brutal death,...killed by what he stood against, fear.The fear of matching my wits,language against the other fiction writers...Longmane died byt the hands of Aragon,Gandalf even Harry..He passed,into the shadow,resurrected on optimistic days,but forgotten soon enough..Maybe one day he will rise from his grave,his adventures will be read,..his roar will be heard...