Last night I told my daughters a story. It was about a boy who found a secret door in a bookstore which led to a world where he was small and everything else enormous. His name was Errol and he escaped a hawk then grew hungry as he could not find his way home. After help from some plucky squirrels, he made it back to the door, hidden in the knot of an evergreen tree.
My daughters loved it and begged for another but it was time for bed. I closed the door and walked away with a smile.
As a writer I love to create stories. But I love sharing them infinitely more and getting a reaction. I know my children look past the story’s inconsistencies – like why don’t more children disappear through the secret passage? And, wouldn’t the police get suspicious and arrest the bookstore owner and close the whole thing down? What about time paradoxes and the like? Legitimate questions. But not in this world of stories. I don’t want to focus on boring realities. We’re after wonder here.
I want to pass on wonder and longing and truth. To give them something to chase, things deep and moving and noble. Fiction is real life dressed up in story. This is what I want to share.
What do you hope to pass on to your readers? I hope it’s not just a book to cover your mortgage.
I hope it’s wondrous, whatever it is.