Tonight, I finished sharing all things Middle Earth with my daughter. We watched the last half of Return Of The King together before I packed her off to bed. She is enthralled with all of it, and especially the elves, and the Rohirrim. I am thrilled that she loves it as much as I do.
The thing is, I can never seem to get over how much I love this story, and its power to transport me, and to move me. I cry at the end of the book, and the films. I cry absurd amounts, stupid amounts. My mascara is beyond reparable. And I really don’t care who knows it. Whatever the flaws in Peter Jackson’s films – and they are many – there are just as many things that to me feel utterly right. And the music… Howard Shore’s music is as important as everything else put together, in realising this fantastic world that Tolkien built. A world built out of words. Now that is magic. And that, I think, is the thing that made me want to write. Even if I never get so far, even if my words reach no one, touch no one, transport no one. Still I will try. This magic is what I want to make, ultimately. One word at a time, however long it takes, and however many knock backs, and rejections, and failures there will inevitably be.