He was gone before I was thought of. Buried before I was born. I wish I could have met him, the man who inspired me to start writing. I wish I could have thanked him for introducing me to a world of stories that have filled my life with joy and magic and wonder. I wish I could have met him, and discussed ancient languages together. I wish I could have said how he inspired my love of words, which I still have today. I wish we could have talked of the beauty of linguistics, his eternal love. Perhaps we could have invented a new fantasy language together. I wish I could have met him, and talked of ancient myths together, Norse, Celtic, Irish, Scottish, whatever took his fancy, spending afternoons lost in fables and folklore.
I wish I could have met him, and swapped stories. I think he would have liked mine, full of myths and magic. And I could have spent an eternity reading his new work, enthralled by new translations of Beowulf or perhaps The Kullervo. And his kind heart of gold would have suggested improvements, gentle feedback to make my stories shine.
I wish I could have met him and say how his words are always a comfort to me, when I am lost and alone. I wish I could have said how his stories reignite a lost spark within me. I wish I could have told him how his stories transport me far away from the monsters in my mind, his words consuming me from head to toe until there is nothing else but silence and calm. I wish I could have met him and said how he inspires me to keep writing. That even if it takes years to write a book, you will get there one day.
I wish I could have met him. But it is just a wish. He is long gone. But perhaps, on another shore, he listens to my stories, and smiles. At least, I hope so.
