An Art

Eragon was that book. In a matter of four hundred pages, it managed to take me away to a whole different world where the brave hero rides on a fearless dragon, falls in love with the beautiful elf warrior, and fights the evil bad guy that wants to rule the world with his dark magic. As a thirteen year old, I believed it to be pure genius. The action, the vivid imagery, the way it made me experience painful anxiety and suspense was so admiring. I couldn’t help but give props to the author, Christopher Paolini, for weaving together such a beautiful story. When I looked in the back of the book to see him, though, I was shocked.

He was only fifteen years old. A mere boy by the looks of it.

I was obsessed. This short piece of news was such a turning point in my life. It snapped the limitations over my mind about age having to do with ability. It contradicted the fact that dreaming high was useless. On the contrary, that smiling picture, that printed name, seemed to be telling me: “If you dream big, you usually only get that.”

I buried myself in my own writings, all the while thinking if Christopher Paolini can do it, why can’t I? I created plots, characters, and my own words on several sheets of notebook paper. I learned so much about my characters and came to love them. I would get so excited at the twists and turns my plots would take. I would see many flaws in my drafts and therefore became extremely open to criticism, because I knew I wasn’t the best. I still had so much more to learn. In short, my writing overtook my life and created a flaring passion within me that, to this day, I can never quench, nor can anyone.

Eragon helped me find my purpose in life. If it wasn’t for that book, I wouldn’t have been able to believe in myself or have half the confidence I do now or even dream as big and as vividly as I do now. I thank God for Eragon, for one day allowing me to hold it in my hands and take it home; completely unaware of the impact it would have on me. Whenever I’m stuck in my writing, my eyes flutter mischievously to my book shelf where the blue, creased spine with the gold lettering sits. Every few months I revisit my old friend, never, for a single moment, failing to find new things in him. As I grow older I can finally understand the meaning of Paolini’s words. I can see the style etched in between them. I can see the technique used to manipulate them and make them sound beautiful despite their simplicity. I read, I learn, and try my very best to incorporate the very art of writing into my work. It all makes me happy, because, for me, to write is to be happy.