Speaker for the Dead

For those of you who have read Orson Scott Card's "Speaker for the Dead," which I hope to high Heaven you all have, this will all be easier to understand. If you haven't, however, that shouldn't matter too terribly much, except that for the love of all that's holy, you should immediately go out, buy that book, and read it.

I have always been fascinated by stories. My name is what started it, I think. As you probably know, my name is Avalon - spelled 'avallon' in Welsh, pronounced "afatlon." It's also known as Avallion, in some translations. It comes from the root word 'lava' ("lafa"), which means 'apple.' Avalon translates as "The Isle of Blessed Peace," and "The Isle of Apples." It is the Celtic version of the Garden of Eden (hence the apples. But it's also a little bit like Heaven.

Avalon is a real place, a small island in the middle of a lake in England that is most often shrouded by mist. When the Romans occupied Britain, Christians built a monastery there called Glastonbury Tor. That stone tower still stands. In legend, it was where King Arthur went to die - or be healed, depending which story you want to hear.

Anyway. Mom and I were wandering through Manitou today, and she told me that my name had fitted me all my life - that, like an island, people of all sorts had always flocked to me for peace and comfort. That makes very little sense to me, as I struggle for peace just as heartily as everyone else, but random people do tend to tell me their life stories and laundry list their problems with little or no provocation. I do seem to meet the strangest people.

Ancient cultures believed - knew - that names hold immense power. In the Bible, God changed the names of certain people when their old names ceased to be appropriate. I wonder if names mold us, or if we rise to them, or if they reflect us. For me, I think my name was meant for me, or perhaps that I was meant for it - that it directed me toward the path I am supposed to walk. My name was the first thing that got me interested in stories, and I haven't stopped since.

My love of stories evolved into my talent with words. I don't mean to sound prideful, but I know that what power I have lies with words. Words are my strength and my passion.

I learned today for the nth time that talents are not just hobbies, but responsibilities. It's not only my joy and my ability to wordsmith, but my job, my purpose.

Ha ha, I think the next four years of my life or so were planned out over lunch today, and I had very little say. I might not ever have had a say. I've been charged with ghostwriting the autobiography of a very interesting man. It's going to be...difficult, but it starts Sunday, so we'll see how it goes.

It's a responsibility I've been shying away from. Every time I see this man, we speak and I think, "Damn, he seriously needs to write an autobiography." But his memory isn't so good. He needs spurring to tell his stories, which are unrelentingly amazing. I've known for a long time that it's my job to write his story, but...so much responsibility. I'm frightened of it, and I'm frightened of not finishing it.

But his is not the only story I want so badly to tell. My grandfather died recently, and I heard some stories at his funeral and during my time in Florida that make me want to write his biography. I don't have the time or the money for the travel, but it's an offer with an expiration date, as not many of his war buddies are long for this world, exactly. I don't know what to do with that.

There are a couple of other people I know whose stories deserve the telling, and I don't honestly believe I have the ability to capture them in words. This one guy I know...I know him so well, and yet he never ceases to surprise or amaze me. I'm not sure language is adequate for describing his soul, and yet his story cannot go untold, you know?

I must know the people that I do for a very specific purpose. I don't know how much good or ill I've done in the world, but I don't believe in coincidences or accidents. Everything happens for a reason, and that includes relationships. Remember me then, as you remember Othello, perhaps - one who loved not always wisely, but too well. I worry about throwing myself into the field of writing other people's stories. I worry about losing myself to it, sacrificing my own story. though perhaps the telling is my story.

Most legends around the world have a set of stock characters - an old wise man, a hero, a parent, etc. And a rememberer. A recorder, the one who lives, who tells the story after everyone else is gone. To make sure that the world remembers what happened, so it can learn and grow. I always thought my role was as the old wise man, but maybe I'm the rememberer. Maybe I encounter such interesting people because I'm supposed to tell their stories. That's a heavy charge. I don't know that I can do that. I'm no Ender, no Speaker for the Dead. (Here is where those of you who have read that book know what on Earth I'm talking about.)

But my name is an old one, a meaningful one. I'm not exactly sure of the relationship between names and the people who carry them, but whether or not people rise to their names, grow into them, or reflect them - my name is not quite done with me yet. Sunday will tell, I suppose. We'll see, as I sit down to write that man's amazing story.

-Avalon