When You're Writing a Book about a Magical, Enchanted Space . . . and Then the Magic Dies

Dear friends,

I have been writing a middle-grade children's novel set in a cottage like the one I live in with my sweetheart, on a street filled with whimsy and wonder like ours. The book has a quasi-magical quality to it, where wishes come true in unexpected ways - was it magic? or not? - or was the magic just the warmth of the connections among the people who live on this street and interact with each other in such a caring way? I finished the first draft of it a week ago - TA-DAH!

But then yesterday morning, something terrible happened. 

While David was out for a short walk with Gaia-the-dog (while I was off on an outing with my visiting grandchildren), he came back to find the front door open; he assumed he had somehow forgotten to shut it, which of course he never does (neither of us ever bother to lock it) - but what other explanation could there be? Then he saw, lying on the loveseat in the living room, a carton of orange juice and empty bottle of raspberry lemonade. What?? He couldn't fathom what could be happening, until in the bedroom he saw the contents of one of the nightstand drawers on the bed - and discovered that from his drawer his wallet was missing . . . and the two dongles for his Subaru ... and my spare car key, too. He looked out the window and saw his car was gone. Then he called 911. The intruder, unbelievably, had not only robbed him of his wallet and car in the fifteen minutes or so he was out with Gaia, but had gone into our fridge and drunk our juice and lemonade!! All this happening in broad daylight at 9:30 in the morning.

We are both devastated. Our sweet little cottage, our late-life love nest, has been invaded, violated, desecrated.

And WHAT ABOUT MY BOOK? One friend said, "Well, now you have a plot twist." I don't want a plot twist! And certainly not THIS plot twist! But can I still encourage young readers to believe that magical spaces do exist, that there are enchanted places right here in our world, like the one in my story? One adult character in my book even denies the existence of "bad guys"!

Well, maybe our "bad guy" wasn't so very bad. Maybe he was just thirsty! And curious about what was in those closed drawers.... and the wallet and car dongle were just too tempting. Maybe he will bring back the car, sorry for his impulsive act. In the book, he could end up being friends with the child characters, and the book's final scene would show everyone having orange juice and raspberry lemonade on the rooftop deck together.

Ooh! Maybe, rather than my needing to change the book to match this sad reality, the sad reality will shift to match this imagined ending to my book! David's car will be parked outside the cottage again tomorrow morning! Maybe my fictional magic is strong enough to change the lives not just of my characters, but of mine, their creator?

I'm still pretty sad today, ready to start locking not only the doors of the cottage (a locksmith has already come to change them), but of my trusting heart.

But once I launch into revisions of the book, maybe my own story will work its magic on me, and I will let myself, like my fictional children Piper, Lydia, Xander, and Gabi, start believing again. . . 

When the Writing Magic Happens

February was an intense writing month. For me, "intense" means faithfully writing for a (predawn) hour a day, every day, up in my writing nook, with all my cozy paraphernalia (fluffy bathrobe, lap-size afghan, hourglass, tea or hot chocolate, and candle lit to consecrate this holy hour). It also means - gasp! - occasionally having a SECOND writing hour somewhere ELSE. One day I took my writing self to the elegant lobby of the posh St. Julien Hotel; on another, to the Bookmark Cafe overlooking Boulder Creek at the Boulder Public Library.   

No other book of mine has invited me on such a meandering journey to find my way into the heart of the story. This was also the work-in-progress where I somehow managed to leave all my notes-in-progress and beloved, battered, fifty-year-old clipboard on the plane, gone forever. I kept reminding myself of Tolkien's oft-quoted line, "Not all those who wander are lost." Except that I WAS lost. 

But then. . . as I kept on wandering . . . I got found. I guess I could say the story found me, or else that by dint of daily diligence with pen in hand, I somehow found it myself. What bliss when the path before you finally becomes clear! 

I'm calling this my "Bluff Street book" because it's set in a cottage like my cottage on a street like my street, where I'm making use of the abundant whimsy and wonder I've found here, courtesy of neighbors I've never met, such as in this sign:

I'm making use of it all - the fairy garden across the street from us, the mailbox that offers free seeds, the beckoning path up to tiny Lovers Hill Park. 

But for the longest time, all I had was a jumble . . . a mood . . . four characters with their heartfelt yearnings. What I didn't have, and readers seem to expect in a book, is a PLOT. And now . . . I do have one! I've been writing scenes that are very exciting (in a quiet way, of course! there is no murder or mayhem, no mystery, no adventure, the stakes so small ... but oh, so important to the children who care about them). 

I wrote the most thrilling (for me!!) scenes this past week. One left me so drained I had to take to my bed after the writing of it! It was the single most exhilarating hour of writing I've ever had. Now all that is left for this first full draft is half a dozen short scenes that follow this climactic moment to bring all these strands together in what is (I hope!) a wonderfully satisfying way. Then will come weeks of revision, and sharing it with my writing group, and more weeks of revision. Who knows if it will ever get published? These days, I take nothing for granted. But when the magic DOES happen, when the Muses finally reward a writer's faithful toil, it all feels worth it. 

It really does.