by Rose M. Channing
When I first started writing, I wasn't a writer. I was just a spacey, hopeless dreamer trying to capture her world (I didn't realize how perfectly that fit with being a writer for quite some time). Dreaming at night was just as important as living during the day. I passed my free time with pretend games. I searched my backyard for fairies and magical creatures. I knew that someday, something amazing was sure to happen to me, just like the characters in my favorite books. I'd find the portal to another world. I'd have amazing adventures, and become a hero, someday. I waited impatiently for my own magical powers to develop.
I was sure the magic was coming, because I didn't fit with the real world. But it never even crossed my mind as a child that I might be a writer someday. I thought I hated writing. I used to be the little girl crying at her desk because “I don't know what to write!” Teachers probably looked at me thinking, “Wow, this kid has no potential. She's not creative at all, and she's not even trying.”
It took me a while to realize I actually enjoyed writing on my own terms. If you told that girl she'd dream of becoming an author someday, she would have laughed at you. Or rolled her eyes. Or punched you. She wasn't very nice.
Writing became a way to hold on to magic. I believed in magic as a child (and I still do), but I always heard adults say it wouldn't last. Children are in touch with magic, they said, but that phase is short and special. I didn't want to lose it. When would it happen? And why?
|The Mansion's Twins by Rose M. Channing|
I started doing everything possible to capture that magic: being outdoors, writing down my dreams, staring up at the sky, daydreaming, and playing silly little games everyone else would think I was “too old” for. My sister always made fun of my for having imaginary friends. She said it was a childish phase, but I told her firmly I'd still have imaginary friends “when I'm a teenager.” I was right. I had imaginary friends as a teenager, and I still have them now (I'm 25). The only difference is now I call them characters.
I wrote everything down to preserve it in my memories, so even if I did lose the magic, I could read my old journals, remember, and at least get pieces of it back. Through this search for magic, I found the pieces of a book's beginning. I found settings in my dreams, characters in my imaginary friends, and plotlines in my made-up games. Writing brought me more joy than I ever could have imagined. I could shape my own private world, incorporating everything I loved. I had recurring dreams about mansions. I always wanted a twin sister. I pretended I held my own magic, and could save the world... All basic elements of my first book, “The Mansion's Twins.”
Piecing it together, I found the portal to the world I live in every day. On the other side, I found the adventures I'd been waiting for. And in time, with practice and patience, I began to discover my own magic.