“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”-Stephen King
Why did you fall in love with books? How about with writing?
For me, it was the ability of books to transport me to other worlds; to meet new and interesting characters, to explore exciting and wondrous places and creatures. They took me away from reality and I discovered the magical realm of imagination.
In time, I learned to transform those fantastical worlds in to words.
Magic was real to me. I believed in impossibilities.
Myths and legends.
I’ve been called naive for most of my life. Probably because I choose not to see the world in its present state (dark, ugly and full of chaos and violence); but with possibilities and potentials.
Hope and beauty.
I choose to look at the world with a child-like view.
Hence, I still believe in Santa Claus and elves, and knights in shining armors.
Does this make me silly?
It’s how I survive in these ever darkening times.
However, for the past several years reality has been slowly poisoning my mind.
I wanted to write darker stuff. The media is full of these kinds of images and messages.
My inner being grew more hollowed.
Depression and negative thoughts settled in.
These writings that I could never seem to finish made me feel so…so empty.
I began to doubt myself as a writer, and even considered giving it up completely.
Then yesterday I sat down to watch an old favorite movie; one I hadn’t seen in several years. Actually, I watched the first two back-to-back:
I felt like a kid all over again. My mind full of magical things.
The same ideas I had many years ago but have shelved them.
It’s time I honor the writer I truly am.
“I want to be magic. I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile. I want to be a friend of elves and live in a tree. Or under a hill. I want to marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing. I don’t want to pretend at magic anymore. I want to be magic.”-Charles de Lint