There are stories that stick in a child’s head in strange and unusual ways.
For me, this was the story of a little boy with the magic to bring his paintings to life. As long as he did not complete his paintings, they remained beautiful, but non-living, works of art. When completed, they would remove themselves from the page and come out into the world. There is more to the story, both joy and tragedy, involving a greedy emperor and some subtle meditations on the meaning of art versus life.
All I understood was that with the right paintbrush, the world around me could be created.
This was especially obvious to me as the seasons changed.
In spring, a faint touch would pull along the brown branches, delicately spackling buds that would emerge with a firmer hand and harder line of green.
In summer, the heat would take on a life of its own, faint lines of blurred colour resting oppressively above all of the outside.
In fall, the specks of red, stars of yellow, would start at the outer edge, forced by gravity to spill downwards, swathing the forest in colour.
In winter, the delicate borders of frost would hint at the watercolourist’s nightmare, a world of white.
When I think of seasons, I think of a soft hand and a large paintbrush.
I think of a small child laughing, trailing magic behind him.
This week is dedicated to everyday magic. I will be sharing some of the real-life inspiration for the strange things that appear in the pages of my stories.
If you would like to see how I deal with artistic magic as an adult, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.