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Something
happened that very second before my blow fell on the back of my
enemy. A seed was planted in that moment and the first shoot was
blossoming.
    The fallout of that encounter was worse than
I could have expected. After it happened I had grabbed my bag, the
broken board and stormed out of school and walked home. My parents
were called; I was summoned to the head master. I was in serious
trouble for leaving school not to mention beating the stuffing out
of another pupil. I got detentions and suspensions. The bigger fear
however what of what his father would do if he saw me. I spent that
final summer in hiding. I did not leave the house unless I had to
for quite a while. I was going crazy and hated being cooped up
inside four walls. I needed the trees, the grass and the sea. I
needed to feel the crisp evening breeze and the mist and morning
dew on my fingers and I walked through fern leaves four feet
high.
     
    This is the pivotal point of the story however I do
feel.
    This was the moment I lifted a pen and put it
to paper. I was lonely, I was scared and more than anything I
longed to be somewhere else. This is when I needed to escape to
somewhere far off. Somewhere inspired by the Éire of old. This is
when I once again met a friend that had charged into battle with
me. I visited this place every day for weeks. It was so large with
beautiful steams and brooks, castles towering high into the clouds,
mountains with snow peaks. Storms blowing ships at sea. Grass
greener than the richest emerald. Sky as blue as jewels. Lands full
of life, love, excitement, riches and adventure. People warm
hearted and kind. A place where you could understand the thoughts
of animals. Where the bird song was like a symphony. Beautiful and
haunting. A place where magic was a sixth sense. This place was so
real I could smell the markets, taste the fruit from the trees,
hear the voices and distinguish accents. I travelled from town to
town naming them and establishing leaders.
    I chose where the sea stopped and land began.
Where mountains grew and cliffs fell. Where streams, rivers and
brooks flowed and where ponds and lakes rested. I created village
taverns and the stories told within. This was my hide away. I would
write and type until the early mornings. Most of the time hours
passed in seconds. I was so engrossed in writing and creating and
playing God that to me the `real world’ didn’t exist. I was in a
world of my own. A perfect land. I created heroes and villains. I
visited so often they became my friends. I came face to face with
king Dertrid. The warrior who fought with me in this world. I
fought beside him in his.
    This was my dream.
    This was my creation.
    This was Northland, and in it the great story
I had finally finished “Dertrid’s deed”.



Three
The birth and death of a story
     
     
    To many outsiders, looking on my holidays and my free
time, they would think I was a loner, a looser or a nerd. In all
fairness, they wouldn’t be far wrong. I was all of those things on
the outside but when I was writing 'Dertrid’s Deed' I didn’t have
to worry about being picked on, or let down, or hurt. The
characters I was writing about did exactly as I hoped and as I
said. They didn’t argue or oppose me. They listened, they valued
what I lay in front of them. It was refreshing.
    When I had reluctantly finished the last
chapter on the last page I shed a tear. Quite a few actually. I
didn’t want to leave Northland! Like a parent awaiting the birth of
his first child, I couldn’t wait to hold my creation. I printed the
story out in its entirity. It was just shy of 17,000 words. I read
through it again that evening, proud of what I had accomplished. I
had not only written a story I was happy with but I had created a
whole world, civilisations, town’s cities, religions and conflicts.
Holding the manuscript in my hand, still warm from the printer I
felt like I was holding a piece of my soul. I had poured so much of
myself and