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. . .