It Was Magical

My thoughts have always been a jumbled mess. I love to write, but my ideas aren't always fluid or concise. I was seventeen when we moved into our new home. It was a creepy Victorian full of spooky corners. The floorboards creaked, and thick layers of paint sealed the windowsills shut. Renovation was needed. In an old desk, in the basement, I found it—my little black book.

My writing ideas always come to me at the oddest of times. A character I can see clearly. A setting for a story. They hit me in the shower or just as I am about to fall asleep. Just as I am on the cusp of dreaming, I’ll get an idea and my eyes pop open. I bolt upright in bed and jot down my ideas. It was dusty but unused, or so I thought. The pages inside had been blank when I found it.

I’d filled about ten pages of the notebook with random ideas and details when I saw everything rearrange. An outline, a skill I’d yet to learn, appeared before me on the pages. It laid out the events of my story and connected my characters in a plotline I had only just begun to formulate. But there it was, laid out beautifully. And for the first time, I had a roadmap to say what I wanted to say.

As I typed my story out on my computer, the outline in my notebook disappeared. Having made my idea real, the notebook had done its job and no longer needed to retain the information. My first story was a silly fanfiction, full of tropes and cliché. The first constructive criticism I received in the comments section was hard to take. I had to check my ego if I was to grow.

So, with fresh empty pages, I took pen to paper and copied by hand. Red lines appeared, crossing out offending passages before they disappeared. New words replaced them. Others shuffled. I blushed with embarrassment. I’d made so many mistakes. But I could not deny the masterpiece it became. I replaced my story with the new version and watched the praise roll in. Seeing the best version of my story taught me valuable lessons.

Once again, the pages of my notebook were blank. I spent the next couple of years writing out every fanfiction story that came to mind. Like low-hanging fruit, the ideas came quickly. The plotlines lacked depth and originality and one day, I hit a wall. I was bored. The time had come for me to make my own world.

I understood that, like fashion, there were trends in the publishing world. Vampires had given way to werewolves, which in turn gave way to fairies. The dystopian teen stories weren’t popular anymore. I considered witchcraft and horror. My little black notebook certainly inspired me in that regard. I made my decision, and to celebrate I bought a fancy new pen.

I finished my story in time for PitMad. But even with a magical little notebook helping me, I was still nervous. I summed up my story as best I could in the characters allotted and waited for an agent to upvote me.

I got multiple offers.

My life changed at that moment. After conversing with several agents, I picked the one I liked. She had a personality similar to my own and taught me everything I needed to know about getting published. My first advance was $20,000—a large sum for a new writer.

I continued to use my magical little black notebook, not realizing what a crutch it was. My first book published successfully with excellent reviews. Then one day, while traveling, my notebook was lost. I panicked. My ideas for a sequel were gone. I remembered some of the details but had to start over. I had to find a new way to organize my thoughts. It was more challenging without it, but I found a new tool, and slowly my sequel took shape.

For the first time, I needed a beta reader to help me analyze my work. And I used new software and electronic notepad to make my edits. It wasn't as easy but it was magical in its own way. And I discovered that I had doubted my own writing abilities because of that notebook. I didn't need it anymore. I had grown beyond it.