Day 66, Quasi-Quarantine: The "Lord Of The Flies" And How I Got The Conch

“Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.”

Those words are what made me realize that I wanted to become a writer.

As an ambivalent teenager prone to plodding through reading  for English class, I saw "Lord of the Flies" as just the latest in a never-ending series of assignments, stretching from here to a seeming infinity. I would hiccup my way to the designated chapter for discussion, sputtering to the finish line before collapsing into sleep with a sigh.

Then I discovered William Golding. Or more accurately, his world of Piggy, Jack, Simon, Sam, Ralph, Roger, and Eric was thrust upon me. I raced through the early part of the book until I reached the chapter that concluded my week's reading.

And I kept going.

And going.

I was captivated, mesmerized, and immersed. I fought for my life on a deserted island alongside kids roughly my age. I battled fear, ennui, hunger, and burgeoning political chaos theory. I dealt with ass-mar and talking pigs and a caste system that threatened to go beyond bullying and schoolyard jeers -- then literally took the plunge to murder.

I was eventually "saved" by adults without the ability to comprehend what was at stake or what had been stolen or compromised.

When I closed the back cover of the book and sat in silence, I knew something had changed. I suspected everything had changed.

I was rescued. I was resonant. I was engaged.

And from that day forward ...

I was a writer.

"Simon stayed where he was, a small brown image, concealed by the leaves. Even if he shut his eyes the sow's head still remained like an after-image. The half-shut eyes were dim with the infinite cynicism of adult life. They assured Simon that everything was a bad business."

For my most recent birthday, I gifted myself a copy of the 1962 edition of my favorite book. The cover art by George Salter conjured up the emotions I experienced reading "Lord of the Flies" that first time, when so much had been given to and shared with me.

Lo these many years writer, I remember the present William Golding had given me.

I am grateful.

I am humbled.

I am a writer.

I have the conch.