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Pippin:   It’s so quiet.
Gandalf:  It’s the deep breath before the plunge.
Pippin:   I don’t want to be in a battle. But waiting on the edge of one I can’t escape is even worse.

I’ve been watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again (maybe as a preface to reading the books for the seventh time or so), reminding myself that there is great emotional value in Fantasy.  It’s not all silly stories of dragons and elves and dwarves and goblins.  People like Tolkien made epic stories that resonated with the real world.  The late Robert Jordan tried to supersede that level of epicness (epicity? epicocentioness?) and just created a drawn-out mess that outlived its own author.  But even in the midst of that he made believable characters and challenging motivations.  Terry Pratchett goes a step further by creating fantasy comedies that frequently bring you shuddering to tears (read Thud and tell me I’m wrong).

So while I wait to hear back from anyone – anyone – that cares to at least send me a form rejection letter stating that I cannot now nor ever shall write an important work of fiction (see “Dear Author: You Suck”), I muse to myself.   I watch elves make impossibly accurate shots with bows and arrows while dwarves stump about in iron boots complaining in thick Scottish accents.  I cry when Gandalf falls in Moria.

Like Pippin, I hate the waiting more than anything.  It’s like standing with your eyes shut, waiting for a punch.  You know it will hurt, but at least then it will be over, and you can get ready for the next blow or maybe ball up your fists and try to land one of your own.

So, bring it on!

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