By Harriet Cooper
An idea can turn to dust or magic, depending on the talent that rubs against it.
~William Bernbach
My friend Cath and I were having our weekly phone conversation. "So, how's the magic book coming along?" she asked. "Does J.K. Rowling have anything to fear?"
"Well," I hedged, "it's kind of stalled. Since I've gone back to teaching, I haven't really had the energy to write. I did change the main character's name. Oh, and I worked out a fairly detailed plot line. But as for writing..." My voice trailed off.
For my birthday that year, Cath gave me a beautiful desk set and a package of yellow paper. "This is special paper," she said. "You can only use it to print your book."
I smiled and later printed out the first five chapters of my manuscript. I promised myself I would work on it during the summer break. But the summer came and went with little added to the book and no additional chapters printed.
Five summers passed, but something else always seemed to take priority. I needed the time to de-stress and relax. The house needed painting, a new roof, or a bathroom remodel, and I'd schedule the work for summer when I was around to talk to the workmen. If those excuses didn't work, it was too hot to toil over a keyboard in a house without air conditioning.
During the sixth summer, Cath called with an invitation. "The Harry Potter exhibit is here. Do you want to go? Maybe it will give you the impetus to get back to your book."
Two days later, Cath, her daughter Casey and I spent the morning strolling through scenes and props from the movies. As we exited the exhibit into the gift store featuring Harry Potter memorabilia, Cath said, "I know it's not your birthday for months, but I want you to choose something that will get you back into writing. Casey was so excited when she read your first five chapters, but that was years ago."
I walked around, trying to find the perfect present. Within minutes, I was drawn to the magic wands. I tried one, then a second. When I picked up the third one, the world tilted. Although the logical part of my brain told me it was just overpriced molded plastic, the creative part heard the words: "Magic seeks a willing heart." "This one," I said. "I'll take this one."
For weeks afterward, I'd hold the wand in my hands, letting it work its magic on me. I taped poster-sized sheets of paper on the wall and worked out an intricate plotline. I started a notebook, writing down ideas and bits of dialogue. I bought books on castle construction, medieval customs, and herbal lore. Gradually, the manuscript grew from five chapters to seven and, finally, to thirteen.
September came, and I was back teaching school. Each week, I held the wand less and less as handouts and homework to correct took up my time. Eventually, I placed the wand back in its box and tucked it away in my linen closet. The reality of earning a living took precedence, and I deafened my ears and barricaded my heart against its soft murmurs.
By the time the next summer came, and the ones after it, the magic was muted, and I had lost the thread of the story. Cath hadn't.
"Whatever happened to the book?" she said during one of our weekly phone calls. "You started writing it when Casey was about eleven or twelve. She was really excited when she read the first few chapters. Do you realize she's now twenty-one? At this rate, she'll be able to read it to her own kids."
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I sighed, thinking of the magic wand for the first time in years. After our conversation, I dug it out of the linen closet and placed it on my lap as I sat in front of the computer. I opened the box and stared at the lifeless piece of plastic. After a few moments, I ran my fingers along its carved surface, picking out the details of the intertwining vines.
For a second, I could have sworn the wand shimmered. My imagination, I told myself. Or, more likely, my guilt. Still, I cradled the wand in my hands for a few more minutes before carefully placing it back in its box. But this time, rather than hide it, I placed the box on the bookshelf behind my office chair.
The next year was difficult. After two previous occurrences of cancer, my friend Susan was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I spent that summer helping her get her house in order and then sat with her on her last journey. Any thoughts of reviving my book died with her.
The next September, I returned to school, teaching even more hours. But a particularly difficult class had me considering early retirement. "So what are you waiting for?" I asked myself. "Now's your chance to devote yourself to the book. If not now, when?" But thoughts of my puny pension scared me off.
Toward the end of the school year, after a disturbing incident in class one Friday afternoon, I decided I needed a break. Luckily, we were heading into a long weekend. For two days, I simply sat on the couch and read. On the third day, I e-mailed my principal that I needed the rest of the week off. I had barely hit the Send key when I got an idea for the book and scribbled some notes. On the fourth day, I began thinking about reworking the first chapter. On the fifth day, I called my principal and said I wouldn't be coming back for the last six weeks of term. Since she knew how much I had been struggling with the class, she wasn't surprised.
After the phone call, I cleared my desk of all the handouts I had been working on, picked the textbooks off the floor and stuffed them in a cabinet. Then I reached for the wand. My hand hovered over it, not quite steady. I took a few deep breaths. When I picked it up, the wand felt as if it had been made for my hand. Once more, I heard the words: "Magic seeks a willing heart."
I sat there for a few moments, letting ideas for the book wash over me. I figured out how to weave a stubborn subplot into the story. Two additional characters jumped up, begging to be written into the book. I realized I needed to cut out the backstory in chapters 12 and 13 that had ground the action to a halt.
I gently set the wand on my desk, booted up my computer and began to type: Chapter One. Flames danced over Mara's hands...
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