tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1757983015298693392.post3934174224936246215..comments2021-08-02T22:00:27.944-07:00Comments on Fictzophrenic Musings: On An Open Letter to Tim GreatonR.S. Emelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10214750549547046755noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1757983015298693392.post-1363489198910040782011-09-29T21:01:21.436-07:002011-09-29T21:01:21.436-07:00RS, I'm sitting in a dark office, staring at a...RS, I'm sitting in a dark office, staring at a blank comment screen. So many thoughts about your kind words swirl through my mind. I'm, of course, flattered and very appreciative. Thank you.<br /><br />Forty years ago, almost to the minute, a truly miserable little boy was sitting alone in a dark room. He was probably listening to his parents yell and scream at each other, and he had probably spent too many hours that day trying to understand why he didn't fit it, why the kids at school constantly made fun of his clothes, his house, his life. That the little boy was smarter than nearly every other child in school didn't matter, anymore than it mattered that most of the teachers did the best they could to shield him from childhood cruelties. Unfortunately, the journey home from school that day likely involved running--probably not fast enough--and no doubt involved receiving a few kicks and punches from any number of a constellation of bullies that made it their mission to remind him how rotten life was. That little boy probably wiped his tears dry before going in his house, because they would surely have earned taunts of cowardice from his dad, who usually only noticed him long enough to make fun of him. And once he somehow got free of his mother's list of chores, chores that adults usually did in other homes, that little boy probably refused food and went straight to his room, where for a few hours he could open a book and live, even if only briefly, in a world that made sense, that rewarded goodness, a world that fought evil or at least labeled it, and a world that had heroes he could dream of and imagine someday to emulate. <br /><br />That night, forty years ago, I think that little boy turned his sad eyes skyward and somehow, someway, saw this computer screen, your comments...and felt hope. <br /><br />Thanks for that.<br /><br />Tim<br /><br />P.S. That little boy dreamed of someday creating stories that would nourish and protect their readers much the way other authors had done for him. I believe "Under-Heaven" is the best of those stories, so far.Tim Greatonnoreply@blogger.com