Epics. See, I think I always have, but I'm just now starting to realize how fantastic they are. I mean, come on, how could I be reading them and writing them and watching epic movies and wishing I was living in one for the past six years and not notice a pattern there? Regardless, I don't really care. I love epics.
I try to tell myself that, on an extremely present level, epics are completely unrealistic and idealistic and that, as someone who tries to be objective and logical, I shouldn't buy into them; but I do. My objectivity, my grasp of the clear-cut hard edges of real life takes a holiday every time I see Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp, in all their buccaneering glory, grab a piece of rope and take out about two dozen British soldiers in thirty seconds. More than once, I've read myself half to death muscling through The Two Towers just to get to the scene at the end where Frodo and Sam are walking through the woods, talking about all the great and heroic stories they were told growing up. No matter how many times I've read it, it always kills me, and I hope that it will never lose its effect.
What am I going to do with this? I don't know. It would be amazing to write an epic, if I could find the right hero. I would know if I found one, but until then there's really nothing I can do. Finding a hero, a story, would make me honor-bound to tell it, regardless of my ability to do so well. Just like everything else, I don't know what will happen. I don't know if I want to write at all, never mind taking over a genre and a plot that Homer created, Vergil immortalized, and Tolkien carried down. No pressure there. Maybe, then, I'll just have to live it.
Yeah. Right.
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