Michael Livingston - Origins of the the Legends and Mythologies that Inspired Robert Jordan

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To Robert Jordan

For his Heart,

For his Light,

Forever.

I first heard of Michael Livingston in 2008 when he was invited to speak at my late husbands induction into the South Carolina Academy of Authors Literary Hall of Fame. About all I knew about him at that time was that he taught at The Citadel, Jims alma mater. Michael did such a fine job at that event that I invited him on the spot to speak at another upcoming event, where a permanent display of Jims memorabilia was being introduced at the Daniel Library at The Citadel. Speaking along with Brandon Sanderson and David Drake, Michael again delivered engaging and insightful remarks.

A couple of years later, Michael was invited to deliver a presentation on The Wheel of Time at a fan event. This was, of course, much more in-depth than his earlier appearances, and it was entirely engrossing. It was quite obvious that he had a great understanding of how Jim had put the series together and the countless sources that he wove into the story. And his rendition of Old English was absolutely wonderful; I wish there were a way to incorporate that into this volume. He delivered the same presentation multiple times, and even when it was scheduled at the earliest slot on the JordanCon schedule, he always had a full room, fully engaged.

Over the years, Michael became a friend, and while we were working on the final three books, Team Jordan consulted with Michael on working out the details of the Last Battle. He was a great help with that, and it was always a joy to discuss the details of The Wheel of Time with him. In thanks for all his assistance, we presented him with the ersatz saber-toothed tiger skull from Jims officea saber-toothed tiger that was mentioned in his Wheel of Time presentation.

Last year, Michael asked how we felt about his writing a book regarding the myriad inspirations used by Jim in the series. We thought it sounded like a wonderful idea; he is a marvelous writer and has shown over the years just how much he knows about the subject. So we moved ahead, and by dint of new construction at The Citadel (where we had donated Jims desk), Michael ended up writing this book at the same desk where Jim had written The Wheel of Time, which we believe is fitting indeed. We hope that you enjoy this glimpse into the story behind the story.

Harriet McDougal

Im a scholar, an investigator, a historian. Im a man who weighs facts, examines evidence, and uncovers truth. Im sensible. Im responsible.

And Im here to tell you that magic is real.

Let me prove it to you.

I was fifteen when I pedaled my bikea black Huffy with dirt tiresacross a dusty Albuquerque prairie to reach my local bookshop. I had allowance and birthday money to spend, and a thirst that could only be quenched with a new book. I parked the bike, locked it up, and then perused the shelves for what seemed like hours. The store had these big comfy chairs, I rememberblue and welcomingand whenever I found a potential new book Id sit down with it and take the first chapter or two for a quick spin.

I was into fantasy back thenthe kind of magic that a fifteen-year-old on a beaten-up bike wanted to believe in as he pedaled his way here and there under the hot sun, ever watchful for scorpions and snakes. The kind of magic that isnt real, of course.

I found such a fantasy on the new release shelves. A big and fat one. The Eye of the World, by Robert Jordan. I picked it up. I liked the nifty cover it had on the outside and the cool map it had on the inside. I thought it had the hum of Tolkien.

So I sat down in one of those stuffed blue chairs and started to read.

In pages I was hooked. I spent every dime of the little coin I had and claimed my prize as my own. I tucked it into my backpack and pedaled home faster than Id ever done before.

Not because of the snakes or the scorpions. Because of the magic.

That magic stayed with me long after I devoured that first book. Every year I saved up to buy the latest volume in The Wheel of Time as soon as I could. I becameI amone of its many millions of fans.

I read the books on the bus to high school. I read them in college and in graduate school, where I earned a Ph.D. and became a specialist on the Middle Ages.

I becameI ama serious academic. If I should read the chronicler Adam of Usk claiming there was a dragon haunting northern England six hundred years ago, I will find a natural phenomenon to explain it. Because despite my love of fantasy literaturefrom Homer to Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, from Tolkien to Jordan and N. K. JemisinI know magic isnt real.

And yet

After I graduated, I was asked to interview for a professorship at The Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. The only thing I really knew about the place came from a single notice on the back of every book of The Wheel of Time in my library: Robert Jordan was a graduate of The Citadel.

I interviewed. I got the job. I moved to Charleston, and every day I walked past the iconic white tower on our campus. Every day, more and more, I wondered if that meant something.

A coincidence, of course. Magic isnt real.

And yet

In the fall of 2006, I was talking to The Citadels other Big Name literary alumnus, Pat Conroy, about starting student writing awards to honor him and James O. Rigney, Jr.the man the world knew as Robert Jordan. Pat suggested he could write Jim to help introduce me. Before I knew it I was exchanging emails with the man whod given me The Wheel of Time.

I mentioned to Jim I was a fan. I told him at one point that I hoped to publish fiction myself one day, and that I planned to do it with Tor for no other reason than the fact that theyd given people like me his Wheel of Time. He said he looked forward to my success: You have my best wishes on your rise (soon) to bestsellerdom, he wrote me in early January 2007.

A few months later, he came to the first ceremony to bestow the student award named in his honor. He was already very ill, but he nevertheless cut a dashing figure with his lovely wife and legendary editor, Harriet, by his side. My script had me call out thanks to the English Department for their support. From the first row, Jim grumbled that hed been an engineering graduate. It was awesome.

We shook hands. I thanked him for helping change my life. He was charming and kind and unforgettable.

The summer passed.

On September 16, I was making photocopies for my class on Norse mythology when I heard that hed died.