Writing, for me, has always come from a place of magic. Could the ability of words to breathe life into something be anything other than magic really? Roald Dahl once said that if anything, a parent should be ‘sparky’ and I had reckoned the same should be true of writers. To be sparky. To be ignited. To be magic. But what is a writer to do when they feel they have lost their magic? And more importantly, where does it go? All the same, a writer must write… So this morning I’m left begging a question…
When did I first begin to lose my magic, to find myself here, writing this…?
Honestly, I think it was time. Time happened. A lifetime…
In short, and with time, I have become so many things….
I have grown warier… And wearier.
I have learnt to be slow to trust.
I have learnt to reveal myself less readily, and often, to feel foolish when I forget and make the mistake.
And I find myself, as the years dwindle on by, hesitant and afraid to form connections lest I end up alone.
But in this, I am not alone. That’s the thing. There is a world of hurt out there.
So what do we do?
The truth is, we reach out.
We place a steaming bowl of soup in the hands of a fellow traveller on a cold winter’s day. We pay a stranger a compliment. We visit the frail but not forgotten. We soak our sleeves in the tears of a friend. We scream mutiny when those we love are thwarted. And we never stop. Till our last dying breath.
It’s all we can do while we wait and hope and pray for the magic to return. You see, there’s always a chance that maybe, just maybe, we are the magic… We were the magic all along. But we lost ourselves somewhere along the way… Every time we didn’t take the time to care. Then we were left, a lifetime later, wondering Why the emptiness?
But it’s no secret… I’m a sucker for a happy ending. And so it is that I ask one small and precious thing of you on this fine and blustery Monday. It’s simple really. Please just believe in magic with me.