Witches…and Magick - On My Mind

As a writer, stories emerge from a confluence of inspiration: nuggets of ideas, personal experiences, meticulous research, and those electrifying moments that seem to materialize from thin air. The latter happened with my last novel, a story that hijacked my carefully laid plans. I was prepared to delve into a sequel, research complete, character biographies fleshed out, story arc meticulously mapped…then a simple conversation veered me onto a completely different path.

It began innocently enough—a chat with my writing buddy, Becky, about movie remakes. Titles flew back and forth, and then the word Ladyhawke slipped from my lips. I hadn’t seen that film in two decades, yet the memory lay dormant, coiled and ready to strike. The moment the word left my mouth, it pounced—a phantom predator sinking its teeth into my creative neck.

I physically flinched.

Star-crossed lovers, bound by an ancient curse… a shiver ran down my spine. The possibilities were tantalizing, a creative spark igniting into a bonfire within my mind. Suddenly, I saw her: my witch in the Everglades, paddling a canoe alongside her sister—in the present day. She turned and smiled directly at me. The sensation was unnervingly real, as if I were standing right there beside her, the humid air thick with the scent of cypress and decay. That sliver of magick… a character burdened by a power she never wanted. A Touch of Magick was born.

Becky, noticing my sudden stillness, asked if I was alright. I held up a finger, scribbling furiously, trying to capture the vivid images flooding my mind.

I’d visited the Everglades before, immersing myself in its unique ecosystem. The oppressive humidity, the cacophony of unseen creatures, the haunting beauty of that primeval landscape… it was all there, buried in my subconscious, now erupting to the surface. A planned return trip in February suddenly felt less like a vacation and more like a pilgrimage.

There's something truly magical about the act of creation, the delicate dance of world-building. When developing backstories and “interviewing” characters, a strange phenomenon often occurs: they materialize before me, speaking in their own voices, complete with inflections, accents, and subtle undertones. It’s one of the greatest joys of writing. And when Ojai, my reluctant witch, appeared, I was compelled to know her intimately. The beginning and the ending of her story appeared in a flash of inspiration, but the vast expanse of the middle remained shrouded in mist—a recurring challenge in my twenty years of screenwriting.

I needed to unearth Ojai’s deepest fears, her most cherished memory, and how to weave in the crucial element of a star-crossed lover. Ravens, with their ability to blend into the shadows, their fascination with shiny objects, and their undeniable intelligence, became the perfect motif.

In my mind’s eye, my witch paddled deeper into the labyrinthine reeds, beckoning me to follow. The water, deceptively clear in places, offered no clues to its depth. Was it twenty feet? Fifty? We ventured further into the green maze, and then I saw it: a ghostly outline beneath the surface. The fragmented remains of a wooden ship, half-buried in the sandy bottom. My raven, in human form, was a ship captain, cursed by the vengeful spirits of slaves who perished in a storm he tried to outrun.

And just like that, the core of the story was complete. The characters breathed, the narrative unfolded, and in three whirlwind months, I had a finished draft of over 300 pages. I still struggle to comprehend the speed and intensity of that creative burst.

Now, with a packed schedule looming for the coming year, I’d convinced myself that 2025 would be a novel-free zone. But then… last night, it happened again. A glimpse, a flicker of knowing. This time, it was a man. He stood in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, in 1880, clad in a slicker, seeking refuge from a raging thunderstorm. But it wasn’t the storm that tormented him. It was something internal, a horrific event from his past, a burden of guilt he could no longer bear. A broken voice echoed within his mind, each syllable striking him like icy shards. He pressed his hands to his head, stumbling blindly into the downpour, dangerously close to the edge of a precipice. Then, a blinding flash of white energy. Lightning struck, throwing him back against a rock wall. His coat flew open, revealing a Warlock’s curse etched across his chest, glowing with an unearthly light.

The other pieces will fall into place… I have to trust the process. But I feel it in my bones. Another story has taken root. It already has a name: Kissed by Ink.

Now, I’m just waiting for him to look at me…

 

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