I remember my seventeenth year very well. Every morning, I would sneak off to private lessons with the writing teacher. We would study and talk about the day's topic, and he would send me on my way with an assignment. Usually, I was required to write a poem or short story in the style of the writer. After my morning lesson, I would drag myself into my father's carriage and attend the business school. I didn't really care about business. Time was often given to us for reading law books and researching in the library, but you could find me sitting at a desk, writing. It was my fascination, my passion. I put my heart and soul into my writing, and I received high praise from the teacher. One day, the teacher pulled out a heavy book with a soft brown leather jacket. Across the front, in gold calligraphy, was written, "The Works of William Shakespeare". My instructions were to read a play every day and to write how I felt about it.

This started my fascination with love. Shakespeare's words of true love echoed in my brain, and I found myself reading the stories multiple times in a day. Before I knew it, three years had passed. I had finished my secret lessons when I was eighteen, and the teacher gave me two books as a gift: "The Works of William Shakespeare" and a collection of Greek and Roman mythology.

My life was extremely dull at that time in my life. I was only twenty years old. Instead of going out and seeing the world before I began to work, I attended the business school every day and helped my father in the evenings. With what free time I had, I used it to study the works of famous writers and to write stories and poetry of my own. One evening, as I reclined in a chair with an Oscar Wilde book, the door of my room burst open. My father entered the room, a stern look on his face. Come to think of it, that's the way his face looked all the time.

"Christian, I've come to talk to you." He announced.

Setting my book down, I nodded my head.

"As you know, my business will be yours one day. It is up to you to uphold the family honor and to continue in my footsteps." He informed me while sitting on my bed.

"Actually, Father, there's something I must tell you." I began, with fear in my voice, "I don't want to follow in your footsteps. I want to be a writer."

"A writer? What the devil are you talking about? Do you realize what a writer makes a year? You can't live on a writer's wage! Imagine what my associates would say!" my father shouted, standing up.

"It's my life, Father. I want to be a writer. The world is changing and I want to change with it!" I shouted back.

My father shuddered, his head shaking. He angrily mumbled, "We'll have no more talk about your silly dreams. You need to think about your future."

He walked out of my room, slamming the door behind him.

I angrily grabbed two suitcases from my closet. The only way I could possibly deal with all the anger that was inside of me was to take my uncle up on his word. I was going on holiday with him. He was in Edinburgh right now, and from there he would travel to Europe. I was going with him.

Singing: There's some things I don't have now

Some things I don't talk about

These things are between myself and I

In my thick skull the joker hides

I shoved the books my writing teacher gave to me into the bottom of one of the suitcases, and piled shoes, socks, a journal of blank paper, pens, pencils, and money on top of the books.

Singing: There's consequences I'm scared to taste

Cold hard truths I can't face

These days are different than the past

Reflections change in the looking glass

I thought to myself, "How can my father be so selfish? I'm not perfect, and I don't want the business! Why can't he let me live life the way I want?"

Singing: And everywhere I look there's something to learn

A sliver of truth from every bridge we burn

A hatful of quarters and a naked song

Don't answer the question of where we belong

In the other suitcase, I piled clothing. Focusing angry thoughts onto my father, I cursed and, while I knew it was morally wrong, I enjoyed doing it. Yes, he was my father, but he was also the man who was so stuck in his mind that he couldn't see the light. He couldn't see the changing world.

Singing: How come birds don't fall from the sky when they die?

How come birds always look for a quiet place to hide?

These words can't explain what I feel inside

Like birds I need a quiet place to hide

These independent moves I make

This confidence I try to fake

You can hear the beating of my heart

But not a feather falling in the dark

I was so sick and tired of being his puppet. I was his trophy son; the one who was going to be the heir to the James family fortune. It wasn't my dream.

Singing: And everything I hear never makes any sense

Another old prophet perched on the fence

A cupful of pencils and a self help guru

Don't answer the question of what I am to you

I finished packing and rang the bell. The butler approached, and with a nod he took my bags and headed downstairs. I followed him, and within minutes I was speeding away in the carriage to the train station. I could only hope that my uncle would still be in Scotland.

*Songs used:

"Birds" – Elton John