When I was four years old, all I wanted to do was die. I have no idea why I was so morose at that age but I spent a lot of time wanting to die.
Then, when I was seven, on Christmas Day, I got desperately ill. I came down with mycoplasma pneumonia. I remember getting sick, going to the doctor and going home. Once I was put to bed, I have no recollection of anything (except one moment when my mother fed me soup in a cup) until I woke up hungry and walked into the kitchen and said to my mother “I want pancakes.” She ran to me and embraced me–which I thought was odd. She was hysterical with joy. I did not know why because I thought I was sleeping for a few hours until my father told me later that I had been unconscious for a week. No more than a couple years later, I had a severe case of Poison Ivy in my lungs so bad, my doctor had to make a special medication for consumption in an attempt to heal me without destroying my lungs. I stayed in the same nightgown for a week while my family spent a week or so having an army of workmen destroy every Poison Ivy/Poison Oak plant across 40+ acres at two residences. Sounds like something out of a fairy tale–the burning of all spinning wheels so that the curse of the princess would not come to pass. I remember wanting to play outside and staring out the window watching a lot of men in overalls and masks hauling things around and seeing smoke rising in the distance. I wasn’t allowed to walk–I was carried from the car to the house and even to the doctor’s office.
It wasn’t until over 40 years later when I learned I was born with SIgMD (Selective IgM Deficiency), the rarest of autoimmune disorders that my father (angry that it wasn’t diagnosed in my childhood) said to me, “you should be dead by now.” As a scientist with a PhD in Chemistry and a Masters in Immunology, he would know. At the time of my diagnosis, I was in quarantine for H1N1 because I had an undiagnosed case of Strep Throat and I had active EBV (Epstein-Barr Virus). For some reason, I’m perfectly healthy and have none of the things caused by EBV but when these antibodies are active, I am highly contagious to people and I can catch anything that can kill me–like COVID-19. I remained in quarantine for a month until I was no longer contagious but I have to be checked at least twice a year because active EBV suppresses my immune system–especially in the fall when my seasonal allergies kick in.
43 years later, I get news that one of my readers has gotten COVID-19. He said he knows he is going to die and said goodbye to me after thanking me for “for all the wise sayings and your words of encouragement and advice.” He is only 17 years-old. I thought back to when I was four and wanted to die and felt rather selfish about it. In my defense, at that age–even knowing then I wanted to be a writer–I never thought I would do anything that would inspire anyone until long after I was dead. I thought that was how writing work–you had to be dead to be appreciated. At that time, my favorite writer William Shakespeare was dead. My favorite composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was dead. I turned one when J.R.R. Tolkien died. I was born 333 years and a day before my favorite king, Louis XIV. All my heroes were dead.
I am alive and someone who thought me their “hero” is on the brink of death. I have spent most of the past weeks worrying about my writing partner Deborah in Northern Italy (who just took a test for COVID-19). I have been in quarantine for her since the first week of March in solidarity. That was a wise decision because now the world around me is rapidly catching this horrific virus. Even before today, I wondered what I could do to help the morale of the world. I wasn’t a doctor; I am a high risk COVID-19 person. I’m not actor or a musician or even a painter.
I am a writer. Just a writer. When I learned that viewership for TKWRT and the interest in “The Secret of the House of Bourbon” had grown significantly in the past few days, I had made the decision to do that as my contribution to the “Stay At Home” movement. After learning about this young man’s diagnosis (and his words to me), I realize that all the things I have survived was for this moment. I could have gotten my wish of death many times but something greater than me wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps it was to know that I was worth more alive than dead. Not all writers have to be dead to be inspirations.
I do not know how many people I have inspired but one made me want to live through this. He told me I would live through this and go on to do good things. I hope so because this young man had asked me a couple weeks ago if I was going to make a “speech” on May 14, 2020–the day I planned to take the throne of France; the inauguration of a new book to begin. He has read so many of my treatises on Facebook, he often said they were an inspiration to him so he was expecting such a thing for that day. As the son of an African Prince who, like Prince Harry, left his royal family for a life of normalcy, I suppose it was an expected question of me.
I have been a king now for over 3000 Elven Years (or close to 4 years in this time). I wrote during my father’s illness and death in expectation for the loss of King Oropher and as Thranduil, I had to grapple with becoming “Mirkwood’s Greatest King”, as Tolkien wrote in The Hobbit. I will let time be the judge if I have lived up to that title. Over that time, I learned my things. The first thing I learned was people came first. I am a King of a Kingdom but always a servant to the people. I stopped thinking about “me” and would think about others. I had to lead in times of peace and times of war. There are no happy endings; only timeless endings of hopefully happy lives. I should allow myself to feel pain and sadness because it allows me to be empathetic not only in my stories but in my life.
It is not easy being a king. Not everyone can be a king or should be. It is a real job with real responsibility. You have the choice to use your power for good or evil but only the latter will label you a tyrant, not a saint. There can be no kingdom without subjects and your subject are people. Your legacy depends on how you treat them because they are the only ones that will keep your name immortal long after your reign ends.
The same can be said for writers. Our readers are our legacy. We are their kings and they are our people. We should mourn the loss of any of them as we would a father, mother, sister, brother, husband, wife, friend or a formidable foe. If you are in their thoughts when last words are spoken, you are passed onto another to take up the torch.
That is how immortality works. That is the eternal life I thought I had to die for. Now I shall live for it as I resume writing during these perilous times. For my reader and my friend, I will say something on May 14, 2020. I pray he is still with us but if not, may he see it from Heaven.–J.
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Que Dieu soit avec lui et sa famille maintenant.–XIV
The Autumn Leaf 