Becoming Frye
I do not know why I wanted to study English, for I hate writing. Thoughts belong in the head, that's my motto. Writing must be the bane of my existence. It's nothing but tedious research, mind-numbing editing and a complete waste of my time.
However, I do enjoy reading, and exploring the depths of what I read, I simply do not enjoy putting those ideas on paper. If there is a hell and I have sinned, my eternal punishment would be to write.
The irony is that I'm sitting in a library attempting to write a report on the reasoning behind religion. At least, I'm assuming that's the assignment. When my crazy professor told us to complete this beast all he said was "Religion. Why?" So now I ask myself what kind of assignment is that? There are hardly two words there, how does he expect me to build a report around two words!
Enough ranting, look on the bright side, I'm thinking to myself. The Bodleian library in Oxford is really beautiful.
The walls are masterfully painted with ornate décor reminiscent of the renaissance. There is a plethora of solid wood bookshelves each crammed with enough literature to satisfy the greatest bookworm. On each floor an abundance of crouching scholars can be found, each on the verge of major discovery. This library is a wonderful place of thought and study.
At my secluded desk in the middle of the extensive religion section, I stare blankly at my blank page wondering what the blank I'm going to do about this report. I turn around in my seat and see a little old man struggling with a cartload of books. He is balding and grey, wearing a collared shirt with rolled up sleeves paired with slacks and garishly coloured suspenders. He looks straight at me.
"You there," he says pointing at me, "you're a strapping young lad. Would you mind lending a hand to an old librarian?" Desperate for a distraction from my writing, I saunter towards the old man. He hands me a brand new C.S. Lewis book entitled The Screwtape Letters and asks me to put it on the top shelf.
"Good lad," the old man says, "I wonder, would you be able to assist me further, I have a terrible back ache."
I nod, still making excuses not to go back to my writing.
"So what are you studying?" inquires the old man.
"Umm... English," I timidly respond.
"Ahh, writing, one of the great joys of life. I used to be a bit of a writer myself and loved it," the old man says more to himself than me.
"To each his own," I say looking at the floor.
The old man glares at me as though scrutinizing my most intimate thoughts. He then says "Not into that sort of thing eh? Perhaps I have something that can help."
He leads me up a flight of stairs. I notice he and I are both carrying encyclopedias, yet the reference section is in the opposite direction.
"Excuse me mister ummm..." I begin.
'Pop, call me Pop. Everyone does." Pop interjects.
"Well, Pop, where exactly are we going?"
"To the Shakespeare section. I want to show you something. Oh, and you can put those books down, we'll come back for them later."
Wondering what Pop so immediately wants to show me, I follow him. I've barley known this old fool for 10 minutes, so why on earth would he want to show me something. We arrive at the dark wood bookshelf labeled "Shakespeare" in peeling gold letters.
Pop turns to me and says, "Every good writer first has to have a firm grasp on the English language. Now if you would, walk through that bookshelf."
"But I do not want to be a writer, and more importantly I cannot walk through a bookshelf," I say rather wildly.
Pop sighs and pushes me. I shut my eyes expecting to topple over the shelf with a crash, yet the room remains silent, I open my eyes and look around. I'm in a small room that probably fell victim to a thousand-page book and an angry two-year-old. Papers line the floor and stacks of more paper are dangerously stacked as if paying homage to the leaning tower of Pisa. At the back of the room is a small desk crowded with writing supplies and a small man bent dutifully over this mess. He turns around with surprise. His balding head shines with the sweat of intense thought, and a few drops escape and drip down to his peculiar garb. He wears a ruffled collar above a puffy shirt half covering his garishly coloured tights.
"Dear boy, meet the legend himself, William Shakespeare," Pop says with a smile.
"Oh soothsayers they call Pop. Durst thou bring yet another whom the written word escapeth?" Shakespeare asks.
"Yes, this young lad says he doesn't like writing," Pop answers.
Speechless, I continue staring.
"Ah, taketh here this note. May it aide when thy brain cannot," with a bow, Shakespeare hands me a piece of paper. I tuck it in my pocket considering that now may not be the best time to read it.
"Now," says Pop, "take two steps backward."
I do so and find myself once more staring at Shakespeare's bookshelf. That was odd, I think to myself.
As if reading my mind, Pop says "There's more, dear boy, hopefully you enjoyed that little visit. Onward!"
Still unable to form proper words, I simply follow Pop. He leads me to another section in the library and points to a bookshelf labeled Spanish culture.
"Another quality necessary to be a good writer is passion. You need to experience intense emotion now, and hopefully you'll think of this every time you pick up a pen", says Pop as he pushes me through the bookshelf.
Intense flamenco music fills my ears. Someone grabs my hands and starts madly flinging me around. I stop and look around realizing I'm in a balloon with a woman in a flaming red dress and intense dark hair. She stomps her foot and snaps her fingers to the beat of the music and approaches me. "Oh dear, I do not really dance," I manage to blurt out before the woman grabs my hands again and starts twisting in angular motions. I hear laughter coming from behind and manage to turn around to see Pop cackling madly at my horrible dancing. I turn back and look into my mysterious dance partner's eyes. The depths of her brown eyes envelop me and suddenly I feel a burning in the pit of my stomach. I start stomping my feet and snapping my fingers as well and the fire in my abdomen grows.
However, as soon as the intensity of my joy peaks, I find myself back in the library still madly snapping my fingers. Pop is quietly chuckling behind me. "Enjoyed that did you?" he says with a smile, "there's one more place I want to show you."
Hoping that this next place brings me as much joy as the last, I eagerly follow pop. He leads me to the children's fiction section and points out a bookshelf. I run through it, now accustomed to the sensation of this odd form of travel. However, instead of finding an exciting room of wonder, I find nothing. I really mean nothing. All is white.
"Welcome to the room of imagination," Pop begins, "yet, another important factor in being a good writer. In here all you have to do is be creative and things will appear."
I look to my left and picture in my mind a tree. Suddenly a tree appears. I look a little further and imagine a lake. Again a lake appears.
Feeling as free as a bird I let my mind wander and soon the room is filled with wildlife both real and fictional. In every corner, a colourful landscape spreads like a carpet. I'm once again a child as I run, liberated, through the many fields and valleys of my imagining. I stop at a gorge so deep, I cannot see the bottom. Pop next to me, patting my shoulder. "Good job lad, now go. Take what I have shown you and be free."
Unexpectedly he pushes me into the gorge. I start to panic. Air whooshes past my head as I try to imagine a trampoline or a giant bird, yet nothing appears. My legs tingle and my innards spin. I'm going to die, I think to myself.
My feet touch solid ground. My body is touching something. I jerk my head up and look around. I'm back at my secluded desk in the library.
I look down at the table. My sleeve is wet as though I'd been drooling. It was all a dream. Remembering that I still need to finish that writing assignment, I pick up my pen. Words fill my head as if someone put a vocabulary list in my brain, a fire ignites in my belly, and the room seems to fill with ideas. Words flow from my pen onto my paper and suddenly my report is done.
I love writing. Nothing pleases me more than to sit and let my mind wander, pulling abstract thoughts from the corners of my mind and directing them onto my paper. If there is a heaven and I have not sinned, my reward would be to sit at a desk with a pen and write. It is time well spent and a joy to simply write.
Relaxing in my chair I turn around to find an old man struggling with a cartload of books. I get up to help him reach the top shelf. Thanking me, he asks me my name.
I respond, "Frye, sir, Herman Northrop Frye."
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