How did Bilbo do it? How could he calm his thoughts enough to put them to paper in a coherent and pleasing fashion? Everytime Frodo tried to sit and write down the story, visions, memories, nightmares stumbled over one another so quickly that soon the words on the page, and in his thoughts, became a tangled mess.
Yet, he must write it all down. Not only because the War of The Ring must be perserved, so as not to be repeated, but Frodo knew that to allow those remembrances to fester within his soul without given them voice they would soon consume him as surely as the Ring nearly did.
Straightening his back against the mallorn tree, Frodo spread the Red Book out across his lap and set his mind to the literary vein. How should I begin?, he thought, his pen suspended a hair’s breath above the paper.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
No, Frodo thought, too oblique. He looked up, hoping to get inspiration from those glorious golden leaves.
“Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by the son of Arathorn.”
Definately not Hobbit-like in its wording. He tired again.
“Call me Frodo.”
Much too ego-centric. Maybe a more practical recounting was needed.
“Frodo Baggins’ Journal. 22 September Hobbiton We left the Shire at 8:45 in the morning.”
Even after one sentence, Frodo himself found it boring. A more personal touch then.
“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood…”
Much too personal.
He closed the book in disgust. This was not working. His head hurt from the mental effort and in his shoulder the faintest hint of that blade nagged in the background. “Maybe I’m not right for this job,” he thought dejectedly, “After all, I’m just a simple hobbit from the Shire.”
“Mr. Frodo!,” Rosie’s lilting voice carried across the Party Field from Bag End, “It’s time for supper!”
He saw Sam’s wife leaning over the gate, her big belly casting a shadow on the stones below. That simple sight, of a family in the making, quickly drew his dark mood aside. The Shire had begun again. New life had sprung from the ashes left by Sauron’s rage. Closing his eyes, Frodo inhaled deeply, revelling in those smells that despair had caused him to never think he would enjoy again. He heard the sounds of Hobbiton at work and play. His reopened eyes beheld the simple beauty of the land around him. This was all worth remembering. Forever.
Taking up his pen, Frodo opened the Red Book, and, finding the appropriate page, wrote, without hesitation this time, two words:
“Mr. Frodo? Where are you?” Sam had replaced his wife at the gate. He stood there, gazing left and then right, anxiously searching for a sight of his former master. “Mr. Frodo?”
By Sam’s tone, Frodo knew that he had lingered too long. Gathering up the Book and his pen, he called across the field, “Coming, Sam!” It was a shame really, to be interrupted just as he had found the right words. But, he didn’t mind. He knew where to start now. At the beginning of all things for him. The Shire.
Sincere apologies to the following: Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Herman Melville, Bram Stoker, JD Salinger and, of course, JRR Tolkien.