Will Hiles Profile


Will Hiles

Location: Round Rock, United States

Member Since: June 2014

Open for read requests: Yes

Profile Information

I was born in a mud hut beside the even muddier Tigris‑Euphrates River.  My father was an itinerant court jester and my mother rather sad.  It was said that she was born that way and I would have to agree‑‑"To smile, is to die," was her favorite bit of wisdom.  I had one younger brother but he was sold off to the Helgramites in the northern part of Mesopotamia in exchange for a book of jokes that my dad was anxious to acquire (The one about the Hebrew, the Phoenician, and the Egyptian going into a bordello was worth the price of the whole tome alone).  My brother didn't write much but last I had heard he'd been sold to the Aryans, who later sold him to the Mongols‑‑I expected that it was only a matter of time until he was resold back to us.

 

When I was 2 summers old, the King at that time, Nebachanazar (old world spelling), proclaimed that all first borns would be sacrificed to Baal in order to bolster the will and luck of the Imperial Army (then having suffered a major defeat at the hands of Tarkish Hordes from the northeast).  Thus I was swaddled in rough cloth and placed into a papyrus basket and sent down the mighty Tigris‑Euphrates.  The King's fishermen duly hauled in the majority of floating babes ("andeth the river fairly bobbedeth with babes so as to impede the floweth of the sacred waters and thus, lo and behold, a great flood flowedeth upon the kingdom . . ." Book of Peculiar Records, Chapter 145, verse 10).  Luckily, my basket was one of the early send‑offs and I made it as far as the Indian Ocean.  Once in the Asiatic currents I made fast time to the coast of India where I was promptly heralded as the second coming of Krishna (well, there was some difference of opinion‑‑the followers of the young Gutama Buddha said I was the fourth coming of Yama‑raja or Judge of the Dead).  The kindly old woman who took care of me just called me Bill, after her favorite goat who had died of indigestion a few years previously.

 

So, it was in a northwestern region of India that I was raised to youngmanhood (translated from the Sanskrit).  I studied under both Hindu and Buddhist teachers‑‑even met the Buddha one day in a park near Benares.  This was before he got a bit chunky (he did have a sweet‑tooth that I thought I should point out but he just waved and laughed: "Sweets are but an illusion, my son, and thus recognized can do no harm.  Reality is bitter and full of suffering‑‑it is a lean and hungry soul who indulges such fare."  (Pali Canon, Chapter 111, footnote 23)

 

Years later he did put on much weight, but I guess he was happy and that's the important point.

 

When I reached my thirties, those of my village expected my "full blossoming" into sacredhoodness (translated from the Sanskrit)‑‑in fact both the Hindus and the Buddhists were rather expectant.  In this, I failed them completely.  I had no ambitions toward Godhood or any other kind of hood.  By this time I wanted to be a writer‑‑not merely of sacred texts, but of drama and comedy and love and sex (the local Tantric master's ears perked up at that).  I wanted to be a novelist in a time before such things were known ("How novel, this wanting desire," the Buddha remarked and the name stuck‑‑see Pali Canon, Prologue, third page, fourth paragraph).

 

So I said goodbye to my (now ancient) adopted mother (who gave me a blank‑book to record my writings and a piece of Bill the Goat's ear‑‑for luck‑‑and the admonishment to stay away from literary groupies) and headed for the majestic Himalayas to write the Great Bronze Age Novel.

 

I'm still up here but now I'm connected to the Internet and AOL (which certainly helps keep me company after all these years‑‑how many I have lost track of).  By my latest count, the novel is pushing a billion words‑‑I do not relish having to do a second draft . . .

 

And thus is my story, so far . . .

 

Will

 

P.S. I was right, my brother was re‑sold to my mother and father (at a loss).  I hear he's an even better court jester than the old man‑‑though the old man still thinks you don't have to be dirty to get a laugh . . .

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