It’s a full moon tonight.
I struggle with worn-out narrative tropes. I’m wondering if I’m too influenced by advertised teen interest: Witchcraft, supernatural twists, angst. Then I remind myself of a story I wrote over 25yrs ago, in which 5 witches drive off a fullmoon-lit cliff after picking up a “pusher” (drug seller?). The heroine witch survives, forever plagued by the screams of her late friends. A clear mashup of D.A.R.E and Christopher Pike.
Forget about the tragic death. It’s an issue I addressed in my last post. My point is: I always did, and still really enjoy writing and reading about this stuff. I still blow a kiss to the moon. I still jot down mini-spells and genuinely believe that I can alleviate booboo pain with the warmth in my fingertips. Maybe my healing power is my-kid specific, but it’s reciprocal; my 5yrold can lessen sciatica pain with the palm of her hand. She concentrates, she is purposeful, and she takes more time than most toddlers are capable of.
We both surround ourselves with literary and cinematic magic. It’s only fair that magic would wriggle its way into our real lives, also. It’s our funky interface.
I’m sure a Book of Shadows lives somewhere inside all of you, too. Leather-bound volumes of imagination portholes. Not everyone’s fantasy library is as accessible as, say, the ScreamFest Furry who stopped at our table and inspired a virgin Google search. But from where do you draw serenity? Excitement? Answers? Connections? Do you use magic in real life?