Disclaimer: I don't own any of Tolkien's work; it owns me.
A whole lot of you read this a year or two ago. Well, guess what? I've returned. Isn't that awful? I've been putting revising this thing off for a whole year, too ashamed to look at it, too ashamed to face myself and say, "Yes, I wrote a Mary Sue." One or two astute reviewers noticed that way back when, and they commented - well, here's what one or two reviewers, and a change of heart, can do. A re-reading of Tolkien's work helped. So, I'm rewriting this for two reasons. One is so the PPC don't come after me *laugh! One reader threatened this, and had it not for my rewrite plans I would have let them happily!* and the other, more importantly to me, is so I can redeem myself both as a fan and as a writer. I began this when I was eleven years old. I've got two more years under my belt now, and I'm working to clear up the mess I left behind when I was "young and stupid," as my History teacher laughs. Thank you to all my previous reviewers, namely the one who, in an almost- flame, called my attention to the nature of the previous version of this story. Thank you to the most recent reviewer who prompted me to actually get off my couch and rewrite this. Thank you to Tolkien for being brilliant and sharing your brilliance with the world. I owe you, bigtime, and I'm sorry for screwing with your work like this. Without further ado, since I usually hate long Author's Notes, here we go.
Prolouge
I sat in the corner of the room, chewing on my pencil. The meeting of The Frodo Fans and Lovers Club was going to begin in two minutes. It was to be a chaos-filled two minutes, of course; the members of the club, fifteen and sixteen years of age, were mostly all assembled, running around screaming in high-pitched voices about nothing in particular, swooning madly over pictures in magazines featuring Elijah Wood, writing sappy fanfics, and giggling in the way that only teenage girls can. I was watching them all, feeling out of place as always. Mine was a different membership, I supposed. I was the youngest of the group, a mere thirteen years to my name. And yet they came to me for their information far too often: what befell Frodo in Mordor again? or what happened to so-and-so where when? I had insisted that they try and find the information somewhere in the pages between some cover of one of Professor Tolkien's works before asking me, but usually his way with words was so far superior to their own that his meaning slipped by them in a puff of smoke. There was no denying that it often did the same to me, but I was hell-bent of learning at least a little of his greatness. Yes, I, too, was a Frodo fan. And yes, I, too, had to acknowledge the overwhelming, er, hotness of Elijah Wood. But before that I bowed to his acting skills . . . which, being considerably greater than mine, had portrayed Frodo in a nearly inhumanly possible fashion. Never close enough to exactly; nobody but Frodo could do that; but given the script he had been I thought he'd done a great job. Many of his little gestures had matched the Frodo in my head; just little things. I forgave my way around the bigger things somehow. I was a Frodo-the-character fan instead. And I thought I loved him; for his strength and for who-knew-what. Perhaps for the same amount of light that Sam had seen in him . . . and my existence as a hormonal, newly-turned-teen girl had messed with my brain too much. I was cut off mid-thought by the leader of our group, who was standing on a chair now, saying something about calling our meeting to order. She should have been a judge instead of a fan club leader if she wants order, I thought dryly. Suddenly, the floor fell out from under our feet. We all fell through, screaming wildly. We would have been screaming even louder if we'd known where we were heading, though. We were falling through a portal to middle earth . . .
Very short, and I know the topic's been done. So what, I don't care. The next one will be longer, much longer. I hope, anyway! Reviews are welcome; flame away!
A whole lot of you read this a year or two ago. Well, guess what? I've returned. Isn't that awful? I've been putting revising this thing off for a whole year, too ashamed to look at it, too ashamed to face myself and say, "Yes, I wrote a Mary Sue." One or two astute reviewers noticed that way back when, and they commented - well, here's what one or two reviewers, and a change of heart, can do. A re-reading of Tolkien's work helped. So, I'm rewriting this for two reasons. One is so the PPC don't come after me *laugh! One reader threatened this, and had it not for my rewrite plans I would have let them happily!* and the other, more importantly to me, is so I can redeem myself both as a fan and as a writer. I began this when I was eleven years old. I've got two more years under my belt now, and I'm working to clear up the mess I left behind when I was "young and stupid," as my History teacher laughs. Thank you to all my previous reviewers, namely the one who, in an almost- flame, called my attention to the nature of the previous version of this story. Thank you to the most recent reviewer who prompted me to actually get off my couch and rewrite this. Thank you to Tolkien for being brilliant and sharing your brilliance with the world. I owe you, bigtime, and I'm sorry for screwing with your work like this. Without further ado, since I usually hate long Author's Notes, here we go.
Prolouge
I sat in the corner of the room, chewing on my pencil. The meeting of The Frodo Fans and Lovers Club was going to begin in two minutes. It was to be a chaos-filled two minutes, of course; the members of the club, fifteen and sixteen years of age, were mostly all assembled, running around screaming in high-pitched voices about nothing in particular, swooning madly over pictures in magazines featuring Elijah Wood, writing sappy fanfics, and giggling in the way that only teenage girls can. I was watching them all, feeling out of place as always. Mine was a different membership, I supposed. I was the youngest of the group, a mere thirteen years to my name. And yet they came to me for their information far too often: what befell Frodo in Mordor again? or what happened to so-and-so where when? I had insisted that they try and find the information somewhere in the pages between some cover of one of Professor Tolkien's works before asking me, but usually his way with words was so far superior to their own that his meaning slipped by them in a puff of smoke. There was no denying that it often did the same to me, but I was hell-bent of learning at least a little of his greatness. Yes, I, too, was a Frodo fan. And yes, I, too, had to acknowledge the overwhelming, er, hotness of Elijah Wood. But before that I bowed to his acting skills . . . which, being considerably greater than mine, had portrayed Frodo in a nearly inhumanly possible fashion. Never close enough to exactly; nobody but Frodo could do that; but given the script he had been I thought he'd done a great job. Many of his little gestures had matched the Frodo in my head; just little things. I forgave my way around the bigger things somehow. I was a Frodo-the-character fan instead. And I thought I loved him; for his strength and for who-knew-what. Perhaps for the same amount of light that Sam had seen in him . . . and my existence as a hormonal, newly-turned-teen girl had messed with my brain too much. I was cut off mid-thought by the leader of our group, who was standing on a chair now, saying something about calling our meeting to order. She should have been a judge instead of a fan club leader if she wants order, I thought dryly. Suddenly, the floor fell out from under our feet. We all fell through, screaming wildly. We would have been screaming even louder if we'd known where we were heading, though. We were falling through a portal to middle earth . . .
Very short, and I know the topic's been done. So what, I don't care. The next one will be longer, much longer. I hope, anyway! Reviews are welcome; flame away!