When I was ten years old, my father bought me a journal. It wasn’t anything special—an average sized book with a blue binding and a small picture of Big Ben on the cover. The inscription on the interior is what gave the item weight as well as the reason it goes everywhere I go, filling a place of honor on whatever bookshelf or desk I find myself working in front of. It reads as follows: “Read books and write a lot, you’ll thank me”. I sat in the back of his Xterra and marveled over the cover. I spent the rest of the trip daydreaming of what I would put in such a special book. The trees swished by the windows, fading in and out as the sun began its descent over the plains, and I saw in my mind (as I think a great many children do) creatures dancing in the shadows and running alongside the car as it sped along. I imagined a race of people who could fly through the forests like the deer and creep through the underbrush like a fox. In a flash, I had the theme of the first story I ever wrote—or didn’t write, but we’ll get to that.
For the next few weeks, I spent all my free time bent over the lined pages of that journal. I outlined plots, I created races of animals and people, I even began illustrating the characters. There were elves with natural powers and tattoos that grew with their abilities, there were wolves the size of polar bears, giants that slept as mountains, and fat telekinetic squirrels. But if you were to thumb through the pages now, you would be hard pressed to find any evidence that this was ever written betwixt the bindings. All the passion, the joy, the simple thrill of creation was ripped out in an instant, much like the first few pages of the journal. The only thing that remains of the story are a few blurry images in my mind and a whole slew of rotten feelings.
When I had reached a point in the story that I felt it would be worth sharing, I presented it OP a friend. Sitting at the antique dining table with a runner that didn’t quite cover the age, I began regaling her with the tale, waxing eloquent on the characters and themes and even held the illustrations up with pride for her viewing pleasure. She didn’t look. She didn’t even pause in her activity. She said, “That sounds stupid,” and continued with her own business. I tell you, Reader, I’ve been privy to some hearty disappointment in my day, but that one takes the cake. It wasn’t long after that I tore the pages out of the journal—ripping them to tiny pieces, burning the confetti, and flushing the ashes. I remember the liquid black streaks as the water rose and carried the remains off to goldfish heaven, taking my dreams along with it. Six years passed before I picked up a sketch pad again and it was fifteen years before I was able to write anything with any conviction or, more importantly, enjoyment.
Now, I didn’t start with this story to pull at heart strings, but rather to share the lesson I learned: Never give away your magic. Whatever you create, be it art, music, literature, jobs, people, happiness, whatever it is that brings you joy is your magic. There will always be people who don’t believe in magic, or even you, and there will always be someone who wants to put you in a little box whether you fit or not. These people come in many forms: maybe it’s a family member who wants you to fulfill their dreams, maybe it’s just a coworker who tries to convince you that “this job is good enough”, or maybe it’s your own doubt. Whatever the case, it’s impossible for anyone to take your magic, it can only be willingly given. I lost precious time because I let someone else dictate my reality, but it’s never too late to write your own story
Never give away your magic, and never give up on your dreams.
Karon Alder 