All of my novels so far have a touch of magic.
I don’t mean like those magical moments when you’re in the perfect writing space and every page you write is filled with magical words. There are a few of those, sure. But I’m talking about the abracadabra kind of magic.
OK, maybe not abracadabra. But something that can’t be explained by science, and doesn’t fall under the broad umbrella of paranormal. Or if it does, it doesn’t involve sex with vampires.
The world is just more interesting if the possibility of magic exists, don’t you think? Not necessarily where wizards can cast lightning from their fingertips or turn people into frogs. But what if, like in Avalon, S.C., there really was an island off the South Carolina coast where on the quarter turn festivals–Samhain, Imbolc and Lughnasadh–you can catch a glimpse of the magical island of Avalon? And if you were out there on Beltane, you could talk with the priestesses (if you could understand Old Welsh, that is). Not to mention that if you stayed overnight, you would end up stuck in Arthurian times.
OK, it takes a bit of suspension of belief. But isn’t that what all fiction does (although admittedly, some more than others)?
I’ve just finished the first draft of my 6th novel with an Arthurian tie-in. Wondering if maybe I’ve reached the end of a good run and am going to have to find a new shtick.
And then this morning I broke my favorite coffee cup. The hand of the Lady of the Lake holding Excalibur aloft. My kids bought it for me more than a decade ago at the Texas Renaissance Festival.
I wasn’t really asking for a sign, thank you very much. I was going to make this decision all on my on, coldly and logically. Well, maybe not logically. I’m a writer after all. But at least on my own.
I started to just sweep it up. But then I though, “Hmm. Isn’t the world an infinitely more interesting place if the possibility of magic exists? Let it sit there overnight, see what happens. You never know for sure.”