My Kind of Magic

I’ve never been the best writer in the room. I’ve never been the most proficient, the smartest, or the most interesting.

But I love it. I love it so much.

Not the craft. It’s true.

I once bought a book based on the cover, even though everyone tells you not to do that.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.

Wow. What confidence?!

Heartbreaking and not just genius, but the staggering kind. Sign me up! Maybe I would learn something.

I didn’t. Actually, that’s not true. I did learn one thing: never judge a book by its cover.

Seriously, just don’t. And hey, don’t get me wrong, maybe it was all those things the title claimed it to be and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that was the point. I’ll never know; I couldn’t make it past the fifth page.

Back to me and why I write, rather than why I don’t finish books all the time.

It’s more the ability to use words to imagine a different world. To change reality. To take me somewhere else. It also gives me the opportunity to create the world I want to live in. A world inspired by mine, but so completely unlike it at the same time.

Lacey came from an idea. An idea that all of us have magic, big and small, glittery and boring, heartbreaking and happy. Some of it glitters and some of it just walks around and tells you what to do.

On days when I couldn’t write her story, she whispered in my ear: You’ve got this. Keep going. I don’t need perfection. I don’t need heartbreaking or staggering. I need you. Create my world. Tell my story.

After sitting complete and unpublished for over two years now, Lacey whispered again: My story isn’t meant to hide. It’s not perfect. Someone else may have told it better. But you told it exactly how I wanted it to be told. Your words are my kind of magic.