No matter how many stories I write, I’m always amazed and humbled when the Magic happens.
I know it’s there, somewhere, lurking beneath the muddy characterization and swampy plot, but it’s easy to forget. Covered in stinky mud and slogging along, lost and confused, it’s hard to remember the wonder until I catch that magical gleam in the night. Sometimes it’s just a tiny firefly, but still gorgeous as it bobs and flutters, gently illuminating the way. Other times it’s an explosion so fierce I have to turn my head and shield my eyes, swearing those tears are because it’s bright, not because I’m so moved by the incredible beauty.
I was working through the kinks (har har) in Victor’s story, sweating about my lack of wordage this month and beginning to worry whether I was going to be able to pull this story off at all, when it happened. Something shifted just a little and everything clicked into place. The scene I’d been struggling with suddenly made perfect sense and tied back perfectly to his backstory I already knew.
It was beautiful and gave me exactly what I needed.
And yeah, I might have shed a happy tear or two.
Win it all and go home with the trophy, or lose and cry in the mud, at least he’d never been afraid to play the game.