When I was a small child, I used to think that books held some sort of strange magic; in fact, I still do. Whenever I read a great book, I would instantly be transported to new an amazing world, become best friends with people whom I’d never met, and explore life through someone else’s eyes. Thanks to a quirk in my personality that helped lend to the belief that I, too, was magical, I decided to dedicate my life to becoming a different kind of witch, the sort of witch that would weave words together and leave readers spell-bound, only to break their hearts a little when they finished the story, still yearning for more.
I’ve lost count of the novels and short stories that have wormed their way into my heart, echoed in my mind, grew like a fungus in my dreams as I turned the last page but couldn’t let go of the life-altering growth that I’d experienced due to words on a page. I would sit there, holding a book that had just revolutionized my life and marvel at how no one else could see this change. How could they not see my breaking heart? How could they fail to mourn for the lives lost and celebrate at the freedoms gained? Why did the characters of this story fail to make anyone else’s list of worries?
And that’s how I figured out that there’s more to the magic that merely writing, and writing well. The first step to the enchantment that is literature is to somehow draw in the reader, make them a willing victim to your words, your prose, the characters that you birth, and eventually, make your audience worship you as a god, the creator of this brave new world. I will embark on the quest to hone a magic to rival Merlin himself, to use my words to make myself invincible and immortal.