As many people know, I’m a big fan of Cressida Cowell’s How to Train Your Dragon series of books. (If you haven’t read them, it’s worth pointing out that they’re very, very different to the movies.) I started reading them to my sons many years ago now, but I’m pretty sure I’m the biggest fan in the household.
The story is engaging, the characters are fun and inventive, and as the series goes on, it’s clear that the stories – for all that they’re about fantasy Vikings having adventures with their dragons – are really about the process of growing up and find your place in the world. Or, to quote the oft-repeated tagline in the books: They’re about becoming a hero the hard way.
I got a real sense of the magic of these books – and books in general – when I was reading the ninth book in the series (How to Steal a Dragon’s Sword) to my children a few nights ago.
Halfway through the book, the protagonist – Hiccup – puts a piece of paper hurriedly into his pocket instead of putting it away properly inside the secret compartment in the hilt of his sword. It doesn’t seem like a big deal at the time. It’s just something that happens in a single sentence during the transition between two scenes.
The moment is gone and forgotten within half a page, and never mentioned again. But at the end of the book, when it seems that all hope is lost, another character mentions that they could possibly still save the day if only Hiccup hadn’t lost his sword and the note that was hidden inside it.
In the book, Hiccup gingerly reaches into his pocket and extracts the very thing they need to triumph.
But in real life, before I’d read Hiccup’s reaction, my son sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide. “Hiccup has it in his pocket!” he whisper-exclaimed. He licked his lips, his eyes shining with joy and wonder. “You see?” he said, his voice hushed and reverent. “That’s the magic of authors! Cressida Cowell set this whole thing up so Hiccup would have the paper when he needed it. It’s genius. Authors are like magic!”
Now, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the majority of eleven-year-olds probably don’t react to plot twists by praising the genius of the author – a side-effect of having a parent who’s a writer, perhaps? – but that doesn’t make his words any less true.
Authors are like magic.
Stuck in the word mines as we are, practicing our techniques and polishing our skills, I think it’s easy to forget how magical and enchanting stories are to readers.
We approach our storytelling through a lens of character arcs, and narrative structure, and authentic characters, and ‘show don’t tell’ – except when we need to ‘tell don’t show’ – and adding description, but not too much description, and researching historical accuracy, and finding our voice, and creating a theme, and using dialogue effectively, and a billion other elements that we’ve studied and practiced.
And those things are important. Understanding the craft is important. Honing our craft is important.
But it’s just as important to remember that, at the end, what we’re crating is something magical; something that touches people and brings them joy and wonder; something that makes them laugh and cry and experience a whole range of emotions.
No one cares whether a baker understands the tools and techniques of her trade unless her cakes take their taste-buds on a journey of ecstasy. And no one cares whether an author has practiced the tools and techniques of writing unless her story delights their heart and mind.
Next time you’re trapped in the minutiae of your writing, and feeling like this is all too much hard work and you should have taken up something easy like brain surgery, take a step back and look at the big picture of your story. You’re creating something wonderful and magical, and one day someone is going to read your words and their eyes will light up and they’ll exlaim, “That’s genius! Authors are like magic!”
How do you see the genius and magic in your own books? When have you experienced that feeling yourself?
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About Jo Eberhardt
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor's cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
Ah. You’ve utterly enchanted me with your words, Jo. Thus proving your point. What a magical way to start the reading/writing weekend. Give your son a high-five from me. And while you’re at it, give yourself a pat on the back, too. Thank you!
Thanks, V. :)
Jo, I love this. I experience this all the time while reading books, esp. because the characters linger in my heart and imagination long after the book is over. And I love hearing that the same is happening with my story-people in others. I’d say that books are the oldest and best form of breaking the space-time barrier. Magic!!!
Oh, Absolutely!
Books: Breaing the Space-Time Barrier for Time Immemorial
Jo, thanks for this. I’ve been watching the ‘How to Train” movies with my grandchildren, 4 and 6 and am now inspired to find the books. I’ve also been running parts of my novel by my 6-year-old granddaughter, mostly to tease out plot knots and talk myself through situations. But to my surprise, she has been listening. Now she asks for Cassie McCool stories and makes up her own stories using my characters. The other day we drew three of them to go with one of her stories (which all seem to mirror mine!) and it all came to life for me. That is indeed magic.
That’s the best kind of magic, Susan! I love it!
I highly recommend the How To Train Your Dragon books, and much prefer them to the movies — not just for the usual reasons, but because the story is completely different.
Plus, book 3 brings in one of my favourite female characters of all time — Camicazi, a 10 year-old, fearless Viking girl whose catchphrases include the line: “That was pretty good… for a boy.”
Thank you. I needed to hear this. Message received.
Thanks for this lovely essay, Jo. Your story about reading to your son reminded me of all the reading adventures I had as a child, as well as those my husband and I had with our daughter years later. He read Tolkien to her, for instance. Magic indeed!
If anyone who had an idea could then have a story, we’d be buried in them, and they wouldn’t be special. I want the author to be magical, to be much better at telling the story than I would be.
It’s only since I started learning to do it myself that I learned how very hard it is. The more something is perfect, the less top-of-the-head it has to be. The amount of work that goes into the good ones is staggering.
I don’t care. In the end, it is work that feels good. I’m so glad I was able to teach myself what I needed to know, from all the breadcrumb-trails left by writers before me.
Your son’s response is just adorable :)
I love that feeling of crafting (wrighting?) something magical with words! Sometimes I feel like Archimedes: “Give me a place to stand and I shall move the earth.”
So then I need to be careful not to get too much like Diggory’s Uncle Andrew (“Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny.”).
Of course, there’s nothing like an intractable bit of writing to remind me I’m only human!