Sometimes the Magic Works

I stole that title, I think from Terry Brooks, but I'm not sure. Suffice it to say, that I am "borrowing" from somebody else, hehehe.

I've been writing since I was in junior high. I'd like to think that it was because I was a highly intelligent and introspective young man, but it probably comes down more to the fact that I was pretty much a loser, without any sort of social life, and the only way I could get one was to invent one. It worked for me, and I turned out normal. Somewhat.

My first "book" was pretty much a failure. A story with no real purpose, a meandering plot line, a couple cool ideas, and an uncommon similarity to the Dragonlance books---which is what I was reading at the time. I'm not sure if that story ever got finished; I have a few of the original chapters, but somehow the first three and the last ??? have vanished. Oh well, it's no great loss. Perhaps one day I'll pull out what I have, dust it off, and re-energize that which is worth saving.

My second attempt at a novel has consumed my life. As near as I can figure, I began writing it sometime around my freshman year of high school---while burrowing into my segment of our one room, ten person cabin, and listening to Alien by the British grunge band, Bush. The work continued slowly throughout high school and beyond, and the story grew, matured, and evolved. I typed the final page the summer before I left on my mission. I had been writing it for almost five years. Of course, the story had changed so much, that nothing matched all the way through. The story was even more convoluted and warped than the story that I had written in my early teens!

Fortunately, I then had a two year reprieve from the tedious writing process. Two years for me to wander the mazes of my story in my mind's eye, to analyze the weaknesses, the strengths, everything. . . and the story began to evolve even more. It became harder, darker, more relevant, and brighter, and more inspiring.

A funny side note: During this time, my finished manuscript was lost/stolen by a woman who had convinced me to let her read it. I still haven't figured out exactly how I let that happen, dumbness I guess. Luckily, the story is nothing like it was before. It has evolved into something completely different from what I wrote before my mission. So the chances of plagiarism, from the original manuscript, are zero.

When I came home, I tried to start writing again, but after a couple attempts at rewriting, I could get no further than 24 pages. I was stuck on the same beginning for three years, and it was so frustrating. To view the myriads of thoughts, ideas, and visions in my mind, but not to be able to capture them on paper. Now, I think I know why. The story was not complete.

And now, here I am, writing about writing, because I want to say that writing is good. And a good story creates itself. It may take 10 years or more, but eventually all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The history, the people, the magic, everything, all come together to make something magnificent; something that is beyond a man but ever so much a part of it's creator.

Ah, the feeling of satisfaction that comes as I visit the world that his sprung into existence in the pages of my mind. It is complete, and all the questions that I have so long pondered provide answers to themselves.

Sometimes, my friends, the magic works.