Through the Waterfall
I grew up a fantasy nerd. I read The Hobbit when I was 11. Then I moved onto The Lord of the Rings. I read historical fantasy, such as The Scarlet Pimpernel, Ivanhoe, and various incarnations of Robin Hood. Then it was high fantasy, such as The Belgariad and The Malloread by David Eddings, as well as books (and series) by Raymond Feist, David Gemmell, Terry Brooks, and others. Fantasy appealed to my imagination. Real life didn’t – especially during those early years in high school when I was just learning to fit in. Compounding the issues surrounding my integration was that I was dealing with growing neuroses, such as…
The Other Me
‘Falling’ iii. I always wanted to tell stories. As a kid, my imagination never stopped ticking. It drove stories early in primary school into accounts unrecognisable from the truth, and pushed them towards grandiosity when I got into the later grades. In high school, I’d handwrite epics – fifty or sixty pages long. If I watched movies, the movies would inspire me to similar ideas, or even to possible sequels. Ideas always tumbled around in my head. Even fantasies were accompanied with a narrative, a voice in my head that articulated how they unfolded. For a while, storytelling hid behind other teenage pursuits. At one time or another, I wanted…