At the time, I was under the impression that the BoM was not only an accurate historical record but that it also held the keys to unlocking the mysteries of the universe, and that through diligent examination of the text, it might be possible that I could obtain a set of those keys for myself.
However, there was a barrier obstructing intercourse with the heavenly host of God's chosen, even before locksmithery became a consideration. When attempting to read the BoM one will immediately be struck by how prosaic its stylistic trappings are. Faced with the intense boredom (a despondency which I was never brave enough to articulate) that my personal attempts at exegesis provided, I was left with little recourse but to turn to the four colour worlds of wonder that were contained within the pages of my first love and not so secret shame: comics (it is likely that I would have found comics without the BoM, but it feels more satisfying to tell the story in this way).
The novel, or dare I say, Literature, was a foreign animal to me, immune to my then inadequate systems of taxonomy and nomenclature. People read for fun? What a strange concept. When I opened a book that didn't have pictures, either the fate of my very soul was at stake or it was an inconsequential piece of fluff that warranted no further examination. Amidst the sublime bouts of boredom that my religious studies afforded I came to experience reading as hard work. An idea only reinforced by my high school's curriculum. The required reading material was a slog, a journey that I was unwilling to embark upon. It's possible, maybe even likely that the assigned materials were literary masterworks, but I lacked the imagination requisite to extract any type of joy from their pages. I completed one novel before I was 21 and I can't even remember it's name. A tragedy.
Everyone needs stories. They help us to make sense of the world, and though my meandering accounts of my oh so fascinating life appear nonsensical at times they provide me a cathartic balm. I appreciate your patience. It's all for a good cause. In my formative years I found stories that spoke to me in comics, sure they were mostly power fantasies and unapologetic escapism, still they were a fun and easy read. How this balanced up with my strict tolerance for only soul saving works (read: the BoM) I can't say, all I know is that they needed a lot less energy to get through than "real" books. Frivolous entertainment is a token of 20th and 21st centuries, in many ways I am a product of my environment. In many ways I am a walking contradiction. I've built a slight immunity to things not always making sense.
The reason why all this matters, at least to me, is that I am irresistibly drawn to being a writer and not just any writer, a writer of novels (there'll be some comic book scripts too don't you worry). I can't explain it, and I've given up trying to. Wouldn't it be something to write the first great globalization novel, the first post post modern literary masterpiece? I must be wary of doing this in search of the intoxicating appeal of external validation. Art is probably best produced for autotelic reasons. I have made peace with being a starving artist, but I have yet to produce any discernible art. I want to live the artist's life, which means an everyday commitment to my craft. I don't get tattoos, I don't like long term commitments, but what I like and what I need are not necessarily dancing partners.
No good story is complete without a conflict and mine is this: how can I write novels when I don't even like reading them? This statement was true until somewhere in the range of one week ago, at which time I can say without exaggeration that I had the most transformative experience of my artistic life. I like novels now, and inexplicably it's all thanks to TV.
I finally learned how to read!