The Gods of Literature

I strode off agitatedly into empty space.

“I can't take much more of this. I need help,” I said.

There was a swirl of colour, and there were suddenly Beings all around me. I couldn't tell who or what they were; all I could perceive were their vague and hazy outlines. I knew, though, with the irrational certainty only intuition can bring, that they were definately more than ordinary.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“We are your gods of Literature,” said a Voice, and I knew then that my intuition had been absolutely correct.

The Beings shimmered into focus and revealed themselves to be none other than Robin Hobb, Cecilia Dart-Thornton, Elizabeth Peters and, in a blaze of glory that could belong only to one man, His Most Illustrious Professorship, the Great J.R.R. Tolkien.

“Wow,” I said, awed.

“You summoned us, and we came,” said His Grandness in a sweeping voice.

“I – wow – thanks,” I managed to say. I stared at them. The Magnificent Tolkien looked resplendant in a tweed jacket, and His tobacco pipe complimented His greying hair perfectly. Robin Hobb was a grumpy-looking older woman who spoke English with a pronounced American nasal twang, Elizabeth Peters wore a truly spectacular hat which defied the established concept of scale, and Cecilia Dart-Thornton looked like sweetness personified.

“Isaac Asimov couldn't make it, I'm afraid,” said Cecilia, and The Unparalleled Wonder added, “Yes, he was having an argument with Arthur C. Clark about gravity or some other such nonsense, which apparently could not be disrupted.”

“And J.K. Rowling had charity work. She sends her apologies,” interjected Cecilia.

“Humph,” said Robin, as though charity was not a sufficient excuse for her absence. Or perhaps she wished she had a decent excuse, too.

“Well, I'm certainly grateful – no, more than that, I am honoured that you have decided to visit me here in this way,” I said grandly.

“It's not like we'd be able to visit you in any other way,”pointed out Elizabeth.

“Where are we, anyway?” asked Cecelia, peering around into the gloom of my thought.

“Oh – this was just my grumpy space, I come here when I'm sad or miserable, like I was when I asked for you,” I explained.

“Then I deem it to be unsuitable for our discussion,” said He Who Creates Glory. “Take us somewhere more pleasant.”

I waved my magic wand and took them to my happy place.

“Amazing,” said Elizabeth; “How beautiful!” cried Cecilia.

Robin admitted it had merit.

“Did you make this paradise?” He asked of me.

“No,” I replied. “Not yet. But I will.”

(Can I describe for you my paradise? No. Not yet. But I will. One day when I have the words.)

“There are chickens in your paradise,” observed Robin.

“Of course there are,” I replied. “How else would I get eggs?”

“The supermarket?” suggested Elizabeth.

I smiled.

“It's very beautiful,” said His Munificence, and I solemnly replied, “The most beautiful place that will ever be,” but inside I was jumping up and down shrieking He likes it! He likes it! Hehehe!

“Now tell us why you were sad, and what we can do to help,” said Cecilia softly.

“Oh,” I mumbled, “nothing much – just Christmas... and weird emotional stuff...”

“Ah,” said Robin.

“We've all been there,” agreed Cecilia

“Tell us who he is. And then point him out to us. Look! I brought I parasol!” cried Elizabeth, brandishing a pink example of the type around her head in a way that made her hat flop about excitedly. We all backed away hastily. In her hands, a parasol was a potentially lethal weapon.

“No one!” I said quickly. “It's not like that - it's not important, anyway, just a matter of damaged pride -”

“Let us know when you believe that,” He said.

“Listen!” I shouted, waving my arms about agitatedly as an expression of my extreme annoyance, “I didn't ask you here to interrogate me about my non-existant love life! You're authors! You write things! You don't dispense unwanted realationship advice like a gang of fanatical agony aunts! You're writers. Teach me how to write.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, that's just cheating,” said Robin finally.

“Excuse me?” I replied heatedly.

“That's right,” agreed Elizabeth. “Writing is something you discover and invent for yourself. No one can teach you that.”

“But – but I'm so confused,” I confessed. And not a little annoyed. “I have so many contradictory ideas – I scarcely know how to start – couldn't you just talk and explain your opinions and ideas of things to me?”

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” said Cecilia. "But we had to go through the exact same process - exploring and figuring things out for ourselves. We can't help you with that."
"Oh, but -" I began, but then He spoke, and I fell silent in attentive deference.

“There can be no harm in the sharing of our ideas, surely,” He said. “I well remember when I first started writing – most of the time I hadn't the faintest clue of what I was doing. I found it helpful to talk with fellow people who were interested in the same sort of thing. Do you think I could have gained the skills and successes I did without those people to aid and critique me? I would have remained where I was – alone, without an inkling.” He chuckled softly to himself.

There was another long silence as we contemplated these pearls of wisdom. Perhaps the three Lady Authors were remembering all the people who had ever helped them with their writing.

“All right,” said Robin begrudgingly. “We'll do it.”

“Absolutely!” trilled Cecilia.

“Where do you want to start?” asked Elizabeth.

I gazed around at them happily, took a deep breath – and asked my first question.