Writing Magic

A little something before bed. Call it magic; that suits me fine.

Image: Author — was once a garage

When starting at the top of every page, I realised that the only way is down, and on the slippery white slope, I hope to create a little magic.

What is magic?

I can tell you what it isn’t. It is not a brass thing or geraniums meticulously kept. From what I’ve seen and understand, it is the look on peoples’ faces when living or dying. It’s the brave light in their eyes, giving a face an indefinable loveliness.

I’ve been among strange people for years, saying little, seeing, thinking, and dreaming. Some I’ve spoken to but never met. Written to, but never seen. Loved, but never held. I feel that people are more strange now than ever in my life. Lonely, often. Looking to escape that loneliness perhaps by being found in the heart of another.

I have worn a stormy face too long, striding shores, a rack of dark clouds behind me. Exiled from sentimentality and softness, beaten back by fires of desperation.

I want to create magic.

Fanatical about it, as I am, the end story will be wrong. The character is too feverish. I go to bed thinking nothing in the world would make me happier than to finish my work.