A Tribute To Legos

When I was twenty-two, my girlfriend of five years left me.  Losing her was traumatic. It reminded me of when I was a seven and I lost a one-of-a-kind Lego piece in my front yard: a tiny, neon-green pirate hook that was only obtainable by purchasing that precise set. I cried and cried, and though my mom and I searched the grass for hours, we couldn’t find it...

Ah, Legos. Nothing else even compares on the nostalgia-meter. I had a very happy childhood, most of which was spent with Legos. I was a Legomaniac. I still have five enormous bins full of them in my closet -- well over a million pieces. I try not to think about how much money my parents spent on all those sets. Legos were all I ever wanted for birthdays and Christmases year after year.

I began like most kids, building the sets per the instructions, playing with them for a few days, then wrecking them to construct something of my own design. But as the years passed, I began getting more creative. One day I invented the concept of “Lego Games,” which were essentially videogames, only with Legos. See, my childhood dream was to design videogames when I grew up, and with Legos I could create a fully interactive rough drafts of the games, complete with towns, dungeons, weapons, items, enemies, secrets, mini-games.. you name it! Then when my friends came ever, I’d give them a designated Lego man and they'd try to beat it.

Lego Games instantly became a huge hit in our neighborhood. Soon all my friends were building games of their own. But no one's were quite as elaborate as mine. I would spend months creating enormous, room-filling games that weren’t even allowed to be glimpsed until completion. I would type and print page after page of dialogue for my characters, which I would rehearse and perform during gameplay. I even selected classical music for each area of my games, assigning my little sister the task of operating the CD player during gameplay.

My friends and I continued making Lego Games well into seventh grade, long after most kids grew out of them. But one by one, my friends, too, lost interest, until there was no one left to play my games anymore. It grew embarrassing whenever I'd bring new friends into my room, where they'd see the mountain of Legos scattered across my floor. Not long after, I forced myself to pack the pieces away in the closet. It took a tremendous effort to let them go. Giving them up was just as hard as losing the love of my life.

Though I stopped playing Legos regularly, they never really disappeared from my life. Somehow they kept on popping up again. I used them to build a science project in high school. I attended a party for a college graduate who hosted a nostalgic Lego-building competition. And whenever I was at my ex-girlfriend’s house, I’d find an excuse to build Legos with her little brothers. It was a guilty pleasure to relive my childhood.

I didn't realize it at the time, but Legos were the single greatest foreshadow to the screenwriting career I would later take on years later. They were more than simple, plastic toys. They were a gateway to the art of storytelling. They awoke the creative side of me that may have otherwise remained undiscovered. They allowed me to create, share my work with others, get feedback and develop my artistic muscles. I credit Legos heavily in the building of who I am today, and I highly encourage purchasing sets for your own children (or passing on your personal collection).

I feel sorry for people that grow up without Legos. They miss out on one of the great rites of passage, at least in my life. Perhaps they find other outlets for their creativity.

I recently received a love letter from my ex-girlfriend. It reminded me of when I was seventeen, raking leaves in the front yard, and I came across a tiny, neon-green pirate hook embedded in the earth. It had endured a decade of Winters, dozens of rainstorms and thousands of lawn mower attacks, yet was still perfectly interlockable with its counterpart.