Can You See the Dragon?

Driving home two weeks back, the highway curved into its exit split under what most people would take as an average cloudscape. My mind, however, transformed one edge into an enormous dragon’s head, and per normal whenever I see a large cloud with such origins, I immediately envisioned how much space an actual dragon would occupy up there. In the past, this habitually would flow into a daydream sequence, that electric, heart-stuttering thrill were I ever to see a living creature that size cut across the sky, let alone that size and magic. Then would come thoughts of getting to speak to a sentient creature over a century old, or the rush of riding one while skimming over gigantic mountain peaks and gazing at widespread panoramas of a gorgeous sunset.

But on that particular day, my mind ran through all of my brushes with adventure. From when my mom read Lord of the Rings while pregnant with me, to my first fantasy memory of The Flight of Dragons movie, to fulfilling quests of finding the Chalice Well in Glastonbury or the Robin Hood statue in Nottingham, to now in my well-known reputation as a bard, ranger, and servant of many worlds.

This brought my daydream to an immediate end, in the desperate hopelessness that it always and forever will only be fantasy, never more. No matter how vivid my night time dreams, I will never earn a spot in the hallowed halls of a knighthood’s stronghold, to be remembered for my courage and honor. Not even 10 million well written books will discover doors to worlds where magic reigns and animals talk. All the pieces could fall exactly into their proper places, and still I’ll never be able to wander town to town, living off my songs and stories while listening to dwarven legends, or joining up with traveling minotaurs. Granted, I’m not one of ‘those LARPers’ whom severely misguided people think refuse to live outside their pretend lives. At heart, I’ve always been in full acceptance it is all pretend.

This instance was staggering in its simple existence, though–I zoned out for the rest of the traffic-clogged ride home, just another steer in the herd. I couldn’t shake my focus off the admission. I raged internally at every car that cut in front of me with a courteous blinker and plenty of room. I shut off The Silver Chair because it kept saying I was wishing on a burnt-out star. Next to its looming twin born of all my book rejections, up roared yet another Doubt Beast–why fight to publish fantasy when all you’re doing is furthering this elaborate lie? Why make a living based on a dream no one will ever be able to bring to our reality?

To be honest, this depressing question has happened once before, and at the sad danger of vague booking, I have to say I’m not comfortable with sharing that story yet. I say it to show precedence, yet it is this most recent instance that scares me. The shifts in my life over the past three years have greatly heightened my awareness of naivety, here defined as my idealistic, pure, romantic views of my surroundings and communities. I’ve come face to face with and accepted (at least some) bitter truths, and doing so has started to turn me into that apathetic, ragey, cynical adult I never wanted to be. Conversations with myself where I quote the compliments and admiration of others in how well I play my character or for my strong imagination, and snap back with how I’ve misled myself to the point where the prolonged ignorance of the bitter truths only compounded their negative impact on my life.

Two weeks ago was when it bled into not only my desire to continue writing, but that and LARPing. Why bother? At the end of events, it breaks my heart to be shackled back into modern clothes, to strangle my creativity 40 hours a week, to not sit around a campfire with friends every night. It’s there I want to live 48 weeks out of my year, not Mundania. Samwise’s “Well…I’m home.” speaks louder to me now more than ever. Why torture myself going back, or trying to build a literary life, when neither will make fantasy real?

It didn’t occur to me until this past Saturday morning that this debate is much like the doubt that heroes feel in their own tales. The day was, appropriately enough, my modern version of the Pahmoten holiday Day of the Hearth: a full day dedicated to celebrating the harvest and fellowship without distracting tech like phones, TVs, internet, computers, etc. While completing brainless chores to ready our apartment for company, I addressed my dilemma with a more analytic, less emotional eye. Am I tracking a hideous monster with impenetrable hide and ages of fighting experience under its belt? Not a physical one, no. My villain is certainly as strong and as old, though. Fictional tales are lies that show us truths about our lives, selves, and surroundings, as I have often preached to others who dislike the fantasy genre. I just couldn’t take it when it showed them to me. I blindly stumbled into yet another trial period of my hero’s journey without knowing it. This is when the road is darkest. This is when it seems like I’m alone. This is when my enemy is reveling in my lack of self faith, salivating at the thought of my despair and eventual giving up.

I return to a book I read as a child, that mulls over different theories of dragon wing surface area versus body mass in relation to lift, how fire is produced, and dragon reports from historical sources. Overall, it’s an intriguing compilation and evaluation of phenomena spread throughout recorded human history, across continents and time. Entitled The Flight of Dragons, the book’s contents were only briefly featured in the movie sharing its name. I once wrote the author Peter Dickinson regarding the inspiration it (and by association, he) had given me, enamored with the movie and hell bent to become an author. His two-sided, half sheet reply diplomatically called the film ‘dire’ and relayed the truth that its plot was based on The Dragon and the George. Ultimately, not exactly the enthusiasm I expected, but I continued in my appreciation for both the factual discussion and the romantic recreation of a hero’s journey, refusing to let Mr. Dickinson’s views taint mine. In later years, I would recognize what must have been going through his mind, reading that two pages of hand-scrawled wide ruled paper: not wanting to crush a young girl’s dream and bring her naivety to light, yet still being furious with the Americanization of his work.

The whole point of fantasy is belief. Unlike religion or logic, this is a belief in something that is known to be untrue, like a romantic naivety, a less insane Don Quixote. And what that finally boils down to is that fantasy cannot exist without the aspect of my personality that has lately been my undoing, proving this skill is both a gift and a curse. My struggle is learning to live with that knowledge. LARPing and writing aren’t supposed to make those worlds real–not permanently at least, because, as a wise coyote keeps trying to tell me, life is change. These institutions are merely classrooms in disguise. They’re alternate forms of learning: cooking, physics, crafting, socializing, government, performance, language arts, motor skills, even ecology. Participants are meant to use these tools to grow, to relate to others, and to experience cultures in a controlled environment. We bring fantasy to life in order to put garb on our lessons that would be boring in other forms.

We can get lost in the excitement and magic, but we cannot forget what substance it teaches us. There must be balance between how much we lose ourselves in the immersion, and how much we contribute and learn. So too must there be balance in our modern lives. Take a walk during your lunch break, away from computers and the bustle of the work day. Stop and listen to the creek babble. Take your cat outside to experience the call of geese or herons. Let a vibrant flower make you think a portal is just a step off the beaten path. Go ahead and imagine your weekly deposit of trash is a donation to a needy ogre.

And next time you get the chance, look for dragons in the clouds.