My earliest memories are of the pungent scent of coal dust and long, golden, angled light of a midsummer evening in the green hills surrounding my family’s dilapidated pressboard shack. At my father’s insistence, I was named after my maternal grandmother, an Ozark coal miner and cellist, as well as Reginald Köhler, a distance relative who was the inventor of the modern door-stop.
Academia could not contain my restless, ravening intellect; I chafed at the bounds of their organs of higher learning, until they burst and I took flight. Since then my journey has eventually led to now, where I am the most celebrated fantasy visionary in the modern era, and now the humble author of the New York Times #1 bestseller of all time.
It is only through my monumental humility that I do not let these historic accomplishments bring a sense of arrogance and pretense to my demeanor.
Why do I continue to write? After all, once you become the embodiment of perfection in this craft, far beyond all others who have ever shared the title “author,” why keep at it? It is not for the immense wealth I continue to gain from royalty cheques. Nay, my dedication, my vigor, is given unto you: my fans who travel from the four corners of the Earth for even a fleeting moment with me, and who pay the hefty sum required for my signature.
To my millions of adoring fans, I say let the Lightbringer shine joy into your dreary lives!
