Mood:
suaveTopic: "Conflagration" (3)
"Writer's Block" is not an uncommon affliction. Frodo has always been of the mind set that all one must do is to simply begin to write, and that the normal flow of language will create a path that beckons one to follow. Dorothy, in all likelihood, thus found a yellow brick road, and Frost found that two paths in a yellow wood increased his possibilities. Frodo's fear is that he will begin to repeat himself, and that his reader's eyes will glaze, amidst the knowledge that they have already been there, and done that. That would be a death knell for Frodo.
There once was a leopard frog. The story was that his life was forfeit for the purpose of science. In truth, he was excess, left over after all the others' pieces had been removed and examined. It was to be his fate to follow, in toto, to a place of discard. An exuberant, and certainly immature, friend of Frodo, brought his remains back from class in an orange juice bottle, quart-sized. Since it was Friday, and classes at the College of the Shire would be held in abeyance for several decades of hours, it was time to commence the ingestion of alcohol, which is a mixture of both ritual and necessity when all the world is only a few credit hours from the front door. Soon another necessity brought the suggestion that Frodo and his friends conduct their own sceientific experiment with that which was at hand, or in an orange juice jar.
That frog swam in a jar of mixed urine for an entire scholastic year.
Not long ago, Frodo and one of the most important nephrologists in all of Middle Earth sat amid an enthralled audience as they recounted what happened in those final days that Spring. With but hours to go before they scattered to the four winds, an upraised pillow swung back away and across the shoulder of Frodo's friend, and in an uncanny slow motion event which is clearly in the minds of all who were crowded in that room on that day, the frog found his escape scooting lifelessly and vengeful across the artificial flooring. In an instant, only Frodo's friend was in the company of the frog. Wordlessly, and with all due haste, he commenced a clean-up, and complete scouring with disinfectant of all the general area.
Science, it seems, is but a progression of failed experiments.
The memory of Frodo's friend is as precise as is that of Frodo. Despite the juvenile circumstances, it brought unsustainable laughter to those who marveled that either Frodo, or his friend, had indeed lived long enough to recant this tale, and to let others judge if all of life is meant to be serious.
If that were true, there would never have been a Frodo.
Thus endeth "writer's block." Until the next. Sleep well dear friend, and dream of the next adventure of the Hobbit, who pauses but a moment as he prepares to toss the Ring into the fires below.
