my epic, never-completed Tolkien-esque novel i began writing in 4th grade. it’s 212 pgs, typed, single spaced, w/ loads of illustrations, a full autobiographical foreword, then a dedication pg, stating, verbatim: “I’d like to dedicate this book to all the fairies that inspired this story. you are my wind. i’d also like to thank my mommy. most of all i dedicate this book to myself. for always believing.”
Not kidding. I was AMAZING. and i mean that both literally & sarcastically, somehow.
(i forgot to mention that the paper edges are superbly burned evenly all around, & bc the whole thing’s as thick as a telephone book, it looks like i literally stabbed the thing over & over again w/ scissors until i stabbed clear through; the result is 3 very violent looking puncture wounds interlaced w/ some old twine, making a lovely, rustic binding.
The title? “The Quest.”
i knew the value of stark understatement at quite a young age, it seems.
note: this is the next-best answer i could think of, after i felt weird typing “my bed.” it just sounds like a thinly veiled abbreviation for “Hello. I am clinically depressed.”
Kind-of a bummer. But “The Quest” is a quirky, pseudo-cute/spare-me, close & upbeat second.
The End.
i dedicate this to myself.