I haven't always been a die-hard Lord of the Rings admirer. In fact, for most of my early life, I was all about that other legendary franchise set in a galaxy far, far away. I was seven years old when I saw Return of the Jedi on the big screen, and it completely consumed me. But as the years passed, along came the prequels, and I realized something had shifted. The series I adored had morphed into something else—designed for a new generation of seven-year-olds—and the magic didn't land the same way anymore.
Then, just as one passion was fading, another stepped into the spotlight. At the start of the new century, a different trilogy appeared—one that felt more profound and timeless than anything I'd experienced. The Lord of the Rings films struck a chord in me I didn't know was there. After seeing them in theaters, I devoured the extended editions and eventually turned to the source material itself, losing myself in Tolkien's intricate universe. Suddenly, I had found something that resonated on a level far beyond the screen.
Right, because THAT'S what keeping you from writing a Lord of the Rings level book
