Sometimes the Magic Works Lessons from a Writing Life

I Am Not All Here IT'S TRUE. I'm not all here. One of my earliest memories is of sitting in church with Grandmother Gleason, my mother's mother, and her sister, my aunt Blanche, and listening to them discuss a woman several pews ahead of us. They did this frequently when I was with them, and they always did so in a stage whisper that could be heard by anyone within a dozen feet. The conversation went something like this: "Blanche, isn't that Mildred Evans?" "No! Where?" "Sitting just ahead of us by Harold Peterson. Look at that hat she's wearing. Have you ever seen such a hat?" "Are those birds pinned to it? They look like birds." "I think they're finches." "I don't think that's Mildred Walker. I think she's dead." "Mildred Evans!" "No, you're thinking of Myrtle Evans. Besides, I think she's dead, too. She wasn't all here, you know. Everybody said so." By then I had sunk as far as I could into the pew, staring down at my bible and wishing I wasn't all there, either. Perhaps somewhere along the way, my wish was granted. I don't like to examine this condition too closely, but I know that it is likely that right at this very moment one of my relatives or friends is remarking on it. When I was married, they warned my wife about it. He's not all here, they would say, leaning close, imparting this information with sad, knowing smiles. Judine thought they were kidding, but that was before she discovered that I only hear maybe half of what she says to me. Her favorite example of my inattentionand there are manyinvolves reading something to me from the newspaper about which she thinks I ought to know. I listen and nod. I might even respond. Then five minutes later, when the paper is in my hands, I will read the same item back to her as if I was just discovering it. Which I am. This happens all the time. These days, she just shakes her head helplessly. My children think it is a big joke. They know me well enough by now not to be surprised when it happens. Dad's gone away again, they say to each other with a snicker. Joe Space Cadet. Sometimes they suggest I should get my hearing checked, that maybe the problem is I just don't hear what they have to say. I tell them I don't want to hear what they have to say because it usually involves giving them money. But these days, as the big six-oh approaches, I suppose I ought to give the poor-hearing argument a little more consideration. Actually, my family and friends like me well enough, but they think I am weird. Or at least peculiar. I can't blame them. I should have grown up a long time ago, and yet here I am, writing about elves and magic. I should have a real job by now. I did have a real job, once upon a time. I was a lawyer for seventeen years, but I quit when I felt comfortable enough with my writing career to think I could make a living at it. Readers used to ask me at autographing events if it wasn't hard making the transition from practicing law to writing fantasy. I told them there was hardly any difference at all. That always got a laugh. They knew what I meant. So what am I talking about when I say I am not all here? I mean that if you are a writer, you really can't be. Writers are not all here, because a part of them is always "over there""over there" being whatever world they are writing about at present. Writers live in two worldsthe real world of friends and family and the imaginary world of their writing. If you were toBrooks, Terry is the author of 'Sometimes the Magic Works Lessons from a Writing Life', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345458285 and ISBN 0345458281.