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On Discovery and Meaning

It has come to my attention that all of my stories begin with questions. And I don’t mean the beginning OF the stories, I mean the preliminary stages where I have no idea what I’m writing down, nor what it is going to be. Mostly my stories are born as just a bunch of text on a napkin, saying things like, “Is this the end of a dynasty? A dynasty of warring nations paving their way through time with blood and victory? Are we finally done? The most epic race to have ever lived on this planet? Are we the most epic, or do we only think it so because we ARE that race and we are also the only race able to think it. Perhaps, do you think, if a t-rex could think of himself, he might think himself the most epic race as well? ”

Then I’ll sit back and look at what I’ve written, and sometimes I’m not sure if even I understand the things I say.

I am a very small person compared to my idols, to J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, big people like that. People who spend their every waking moments being what they want to be, the thoughtful, innovative, philosophical geniuses that they have come to be known as. I find myself realizing that my moments are spent battling laziness, battling a lack of motivation. Very many times I am motivated indeed, but not so much as to be as brilliant as they were, are.

I simply must find a way to be better, to be more thoughtful, more honest and wise.

Perhaps my story will pave the way. Perhaps it will know a bit more than I. Indeed, I believe the only solution to this unsolvable issue is to write.

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