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Eclipse: An Introduction

Summary:
It was bouncing around my head for about two weeks, and I couldn't take it anymore, sketching out random crap in school (math, to be precise) until I decide to let it all out. Behold, the Eclipse cover, by Everchanging.


Notes:
I wrote a twenty-craptastic-minute essay, mainly an introduction that I felt like writing. But my main thing was the drawing, in which I finally got on the computer after some scanner trouble.


1. Eclipse: An Introduction

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Eclipse: An Introduction

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, to tell you the truth. –“The Catcher in the Rye” (J.D. Salinger)

At first, the sunset leading to twilight was beautiful. It was filled with magic and fantasy, dæmons and angels, geniuses, adventurers, warriors, and a great and terrible beauty.

Twilight was apart of that wonder, that illusion, that inspiration. Like the others before it, it opened my eyes, showed me how to write, hot to read, how to wonder. And like the others before it, it left me, leading me into the night—a night with a new moon. But the new moon was something wonderful: the start of my adventure, carrying twilight magic, grace, mystery, and longing. But it was dark, and I stumbled around quite a bit until I learned to listen and wait. I’ve barely started that journey in the dark. I can be famous, I tell myself. I can be a good writer.

Yet who was I kidding? I would never measure up to the likes of Stephenie Meyer, Libba Bray, Philip Pullman, J.K. Rowling, Bram Stoker, Anne Rice, the classics—the classics I haven’t read, like Austen, Shakespeare, Asimov, and the Brontë sisters.

It was night, and no one can tell me to stop dreaming. Instead of writing, maybe I could be an artist. After I write something worthwhile, sure.

And now, after a revelation that shakes up the world, dumps me into the swamp in the middle of the night, I remember that I hate fanfiction, my “worthwhile” pieces. “Write in your own world,” said George R.R. Martin. “Don’t write in mine, or Tolkien’s, or King’s…”

But Edward and Bella both sing for me as Bella does to Edward. “Live in our world for a while,” they said. I agree.

“I’ll be here only for a little while,” I said. “Then I‘ll be leaving for home.”

“Home?” Bella asked.

I pointed to somewhere in the distance, far underground. “Lady Fate calls for me often. She lets me visit other worlds, but she always reminds often me to come home.”

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