But what about this country has suddenly made it so popular? Looking through the American lens, where does Ireland’s magic come from ?

I spent a semester studying Irish literature and Celtic folklore in Dublin. Here’s what I gather:

1. Ireland is a place for creatives and progressivists.

While Irish creatives have always carried their weight in American pop culture (and vice versa), the recent success of Irish actors like Cillian Murphy, Paul Mescal, and Saoirse Ronan have served to both strengthen this reputation and introduce it to a wider, younger audience.

This is nothing new. From writers that shaped the Irish revolution (W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, J.M. Synge…) to musicians that globalized Irish pop culture (U2, the Cranberries, Van Morrison…), the country’s internal and external influences have always leaned heavily on its creatives.

Contemporary Irish creatives like Sally Rooney and Hozier continue this legacy, furthering the Motherland’s reputation as a thriving inspirational pool— both for art and societal progress.

Ireland’s literature and film, historically and currently, has a tendency to provoke— to expose and challenge societal oppression. They are a republic built off centuries of colonialism and rebellion. A large part of Irish culture is protest and progress, so their voices ring with veteran experience and relatability to American audiences.

Since Irish culture is most globally recognizable for this activism and creative fertility, the country also lands itself as somewhat of a liberal hotspot. Regardless of the ongoing internal issues of Irish politics, many outsiders (Americans, especially) still hold this “grass is greener” ideal, and view it as a dream destination.

2. Ireland is the birthplace of fairy tales.

Many of the classic fairy tales we grew up reading are the product of Victorian-era English rewrites.

Even after decades of religious and linguistic erasure, many Irish folk tales survived in rural communities. English writers watered down these stories in order to produce something more family friendly, painting magic as delightful and fairies as friends. (Read more about this in my article, “The Evolution of Fairy Tales”!)

Fascinatingly, the popularity of modern fantasy is due in part to these original Celtic myths and legends— the ones behind commodified English fairy tales. One author in particular, J.R.R Tolkien, based his Lord of the Rings books off of a wide variety of mythologies: Norse, Germanic, and of course, Celtic.

Celtic, and more specifically Irish influence, is what created the setting for the story. Western Ireland and the Burren heavily inspired Tolkien’s geographical vision of Middle Earth. Regardless of the novels’ mythological melting pot, the land itself was Irish.

The success of Tolkien’s novels not only established fantasy as a commercially popular adult genre, but also acted as a world-building blueprint for future fantasy authors. Celtic inspired geography, weather, villages, and fairies became a staple. Even decades later, with the genre’s newest era of “high fantasy” and “romantasy”, we still see the influence of Celtic aesthetics. (Popular movies and TV shows like Game of Thrones and Star Wars also used Ireland as a filming backdrop!)

Fantasy media has established an intrinsic link between Ireland’s real-world landscape and magic. Whether it be the original Celtic folklore, the English children’s stories, Tolkien’s rebrand, or modern high fantasy, the Motherland has been and continues to be the source.

3. There is a new market for whimsy.

Over quarantine, people did whatever they could to occupy themselves at home. For many this meant joining a new wave of readers on social media. Tiktok’s #booktok gained significant traction amongst Americans in 2020 and prompted a huge resurgence of the fantasy genre.

Similar to our 1960s counterculture that received The Lord of the Rings, people in quarantine were drawn to the exploration of different worlds in different times. Indulging in fantasy became a new way to escape seemingly endless isolation.

Post quarantine, as international travel began opening up, Ireland became somewhat of a spectacle. The interests of creatives— readers, writers, and viewers alike— had shifted, and Irish culture fit the ticket.

The country now holds a stronger stake in American pop culture than ever before, in film, music, and literature. Aside from its next-door neighbor, Britain, Americans account for the largest percentage of Ireland’s tourists. It doesn’t seem to matter that the country is perpetually cold, wet, and foggy… moodiness is part of the allure.

It’s what we’ve read about. It’s romantic.

~

Through the American lens, Ireland is a living, breathing fairy tale— a historical and geographical spectacle. Ireland inspires our political sphere, creative spaces, and fantasies. Our cultures have always spoken back and forth like this— influencing and emulating each other. From the Declaration of Independence to the 80s rock-n-roll themed pubs of Dublin, Ireland offers the comforts of home, seasoned with modern progress and ancient magic.

Grass is always greener, I suppose!

Thanks for reading!

~

SOURCES:

Why is Irish Culture so Popular? Explaining Ireland’s ‘Green Wave’ - Georgetown University

Everyone loves Ireland? Why is Irish culture so hot right now? - The Irish Times

Tolkien Day: The undeniable Irish influence on “The Lord of the Rings” - Irish Central

How The Lord of the Rings Changed Publishing Forever - Reactor

Perception vs reality: How Ireland is marketed to tourists abroad - The Irish Times

Inbound Tourism June 2025 - Central Statistics Office

Around the same time as this movement, adult fantasy books began rising in popularity. TikTok’s “#BookTok” was flooded by millions hoping to find new worlds to escape into. On a global scale, bookstores began setting up front-of-house displays specifically to feature novels that had gained popularity from #BookTok (with most of said titles having some sort of fantasy element).

Granted, a large part of this genre’s rising popularity can be credited specifically to romantasy— a subgenre blend of romance and fantasy that often focuses heavily on sex as a selling point. However, for many readers (including myself), this excitement around porn with a plot came and went. As of late 2025, Books-A-Million estimates their average customer to be an, “18-35 year-old woman who is extremely engaged in social media and whose interests are moving beyond just romantasy titles.”

So what are we moving onto? Now that we’ve been bitten by the booklover bug, what is our newest fascination?

For readers like myself, our interests have remained in the fantasy genre— building worlds filled with magic, cryptic creatures, enchanting landscapes, and fate-changing journeys. It’s books like these that help me embrace my inner child: a girl who built tiny stick houses on hikes in the hopes that woodland fairies would think I was cool… and who thought the green blinking light in my bedroom’s smoke detector was tinker bell, stuck, and that one day when I was tall enough, I’d free her.

As an adult, currently, it’s a lot easier for me to say that I enjoy reading fantasy books than to explain why I think the fantasy book I’m writing is valuable. I find that casually sharing my passion for fantasy is an overt risk— in my head, at least, it’s rare that the person I’m talking to would take my (literal) fantasies seriously. It’s hard to have a serious conversation about magical princess assassins without retroactively recognizing its absurdity.

Though by looking through the inner child mindset, I realize that I’m protecting myself (and my inner child) from other people’s potential disapproval.

“If it’s not real, why waste your time?”

“Why build a fake world when we already live in one that is infinitely complex and beautiful?”

In preparing myself for these unlikely questions, however, I have allowed my fear to control my passion. It’s a defensive mindset that is entirely counterproductive to my future success as a fantasy author. I can recognize that, and have for years, yet still struggle to talk about my work seriously.

So how can I move past this inhibition? How can I, and other adults like me, embrace our inner child, allowing ourselves to find joy in the things we used to— things the world has deemed immature? How can we rediscover magic?

To answer that, I look to one of my childhood inspirations.

“We adults must go inside ourselves and remember the time before the grown-ups told us these things were not worthwhile. That child is in there somewhere, and she believes unicorns are noble beasts that bring beauty to the world. She believes magical creatures are lovely and terrifying and the world they live in is one of wonder that has no bounds…

If we give little girls a respectful interpretation of the things they like— if we dare to take it as seriously as they do— we will see for ourselves that it’s not so silly at all. We can truly appreciate the merit they see in it. And, amazingly, we can enjoy it ourselves.

That child is in there, in each of us. And it’s not so hard to find her if we just open our minds to magic.”

— Lauren Faust, creator of My Little Pony

Thanks for reading!

SOURCES:

Forbes: The Power of BookTok

Publisher’s Weekly: Books-A-Million Bounces Back

Elements of Harmony: The Official Guidebook

These are called third spaces. People gather here to meet with friends, build community, or simply relax. Libraries share this title, but are often underestimated in value. In truth, libraries assume the role of not only third spaces, but as civic centers that provide essential resources for anyone in the community. From computer labs, resume building, clubs and classes to daycare, modern libraries go way beyond books.

I sat down with Homewood Public Library Director Judith Wright to discuss the importance and challenges of keeping these spaces alive.

It’s not uncommon nowadays to hear about libraries, both local and national, receiving major funding cuts. That’s why Wright believes local support from patrons is essential, saying,

“A public library is only going to be as strong as the community that supports it.”

So what happens when a library is properly valued and supported? What kind of opportunities does that enable?

Homewood (a suburb off of Birmingham, Alabama) is a perfect example of this.

After working for decades across libraries in Jefferson and Shelby County, Wright returned to Homewood because— simply put— we show up.

“There’s something magical about this library,” Wright says. “The city understands that you need a strong one to have a well rounded community.”

But what gives libraries this cornerstone quality? Isn’t it just books? Not to underplay the value of a well-read community, of course, but this is a common misconception. Even the nation’s first public libraries weren’t created to solely play supply-and-demand roles. What followed the world’s first industrial revolution was a “gilded-age” for the wealthy, characterized by corporate greed and an increasing divide in socioeconomic class. In response, industrialist-turned-philanthropist Andrew Carnegie built over 1600 public libraries nationwide, deeming them “palaces for the people” because of the various free resources and roles they were created to fulfill.

The job of modern libraries is to live up to this title. A difficult task, considering trends in federal funding, censorship, and personal isolation post-quarantine, but one that Homewood Public Library excels at.

“I think the thing I wish people would know is that we’re not just books,” Wright says, “We’re anything you might need. A lot of people don’t think to go to their public library for a pressure washer, or a sewing machine, or a cello… there’s that expectation of ‘oh, I need to spend money,’ but you don’t with us.”

And that’s just the beginning of what Homewood Library offers. From their “library of things”, you can check out a number of musical instruments, home improvement tools, puzzles, vinyl records, wifi hotspots, etc. They also offer tutoring for students, classes on resume writing, ACT prep, art, yoga, ESL in partnership with HICA (the Hispanic Immigrant Coalition of Alabama), talks from local authors, clubs for DND, podcasts, films and minicons… all adding up between 100-125 free events every month.

As a working mom herself, Wright praises the generosity and versatility of their events,

“The only time (my husband and I) can take our daughter to storytime is on the weekends. We live in Shelby County, and the closest library to us that does something on Saturdays is this library. I’m forever thankful to Cristina [Castor] (head of children’s department) for doing that.”

Youth events like these are a particular area of focus for the library, especially in a post-quarantine society. Wright loves working with teens, especially, because they’re,

“so vulnerable and honest… they’re ready to change the world and you can’t tell them otherwise.”

The library uses input from their teen advisory board (compiled of 6-12th grade volunteers) to keep track of the ever changing needs of Homewood’s youth and to create events based on them. They’ve even hired six former advisory board volunteers as adults because, as Wright says,

“They’ve gotten to see that this is a place that cares about them.”

It’s this kind of catered community attention that makes Homewood Public Library so beloved. When a staff like theirs has the resources and capabilities to discover and meet communal needs, they do.

To run a library so deeply in touch with its community requires constant conversation. Even off the clock,

“We don’t turn off being librarians,” Wright, says, “we really are missionaries, because we’re free and we want people to know. We do this job because we love it. We do it for our community, as a give-back. It’s a privilege. You want to spread the good news.”

And they do— Homewood Public Library takes every chance it can to reach out. “Anytime that there’s a community event, we want to have a table.” From surveys and focus groups to annual festivals like We Love Homewood Day, the library makes sure to represent, leave an impact, and come back with ideas. Being what Wright calls a “yes” library is both their biggest strength and greatest challenge.

“You have to have a really creative staff,” Wright says. “This library wouldn’t be as successful as it was without the team out there coming up with these ideas.”

Knowing how best to serve 250,000 annual entrants is not only their mission as a team, but critical to their perceived value in the eyes of the state. With recent issues on censorship and budget cuts, it’s understandable for libraries like Homewood to feel threatened.

Wright says, “it’s hard to see things like that because you want to make sure that people who are making big financial decisions for libraries understand what we do— that’s where having your community advocate for you is such a big deal… A policy or lawmaker might not have used a public library recently, so they might not know that so-and-so’s mother goes every week to check out ten large-print books, or that so-and-so got help writing their resume, or that we do technology classes to help with proficiency… it’s all about educating your community on what you do… and for that you need them to use your library.”

So what can you do to support your library?

Well, as Wright says, use it!

It’s not a matter of donations (although they do help) as much as a matter of showing up. Check out a book, a puzzle, a sewing machine… attend an event, a class, a talk… and tell a friend!

My favorite way to use the Homewood Public Library is to browse their second-hand bookstore, the Friends of the Library, and stock up on preloved books for usually less than a dollar each! I also enjoy hanging out in the teen section (they have the coziest chairs!) to read or write articles like this one for my blog.

Fun fact: Judith Wright’s favorite book is A Sick Day for Amos McGee by Erin and Phillip Stead. She says “It’s just a picture book… but that one makes my heart happy.”

Thanks for reading! :)

SOURCES:

https://americanlibrariesmagazine.org/2010/01/27/gilded-age/

https://www.ebsco.com/research-starters/library-and-information-science/public-library-system-north-america

https://www.neh.gov/article/complicated-role-modern-public-library

https://thehomewoodstar.com/peopleplaces/always-due-back-Judith-Wright-has-left-the-Homewood-Library/

https://esl.uchicago.edu/2023/11/01/third-places-what-are-they-and-why-are-they-important-to-american-culture/

CHARACTERS:

MABEL, 20

DANIEL, 19

HARPER, 18, Daniel’s sister

ALEXA, 19

CLUB MEMBER 1

CLUB MEMBER 2

Scene I

(The club is mingling during the meeting’s mid-way snack break. Various indistinguishable conversations are going on in Mabel’s living room: a small, cozy college apartment. Members sit in chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Mabel comes out of the kitchen with a packet of cookies.)

MABEL Okay, I got the… peanut butter ones this time.

CLUB MEMBER 1 (One voice speaks:) Aw, I’m allergic.

MABEL (Mabel steps closer and speaks to them alone,) Oh shoot, really?

CLUB MEMBER 1 Yea. (Beat.)

MABEL I have like– a quarter box of cheezits left.

CLUB MEMBER 1 Oh that’s okay.

MABEL No, please, finish them–

CLUB MEMBER 1 No, that’s okay–

MABEL I know you like them. I don’t like the white cheddar really, anyway. (Pause. Encouraging,) I won’t eat them.

CRIER’S CLUB 1 Okay. Thank you.

MABEL You’re welcome! (She gives them the cheezit box and places the cookies on an ottoman in the center. Members lean over to grab one or two each. Mabel takes her seat and addresses all.) Alright, are we settled? Happy? Any drinks? (The members quiet down.) Great! Where did we leave off? Halfway, right? So we’ll pick back up with Alexa? (She turns to Alexa,) That okay? You’re ready? Awesome. (Addressing all,) Okay then, I think we’ll go ahead–

(There’s a knock at the door. Mabel looks confused and asks softly,) Are we missing anyone? (Members shake their heads and say hushed no’s. Mabel rises and goes to the door. Daniel waits on the other side.)

MABEL Hi!

DANIEL Hi. (Beat.)

MABEL Can I help you–

DANIEL Is this the crier’s club? Oh, sorry. Sorry.

MABEL Oh! Yes! Yes, come on in.

DANIEL Thank you. (Daniel is ushered in. He realizes too late that all the other club members are women. Mabel gives him her seat and squats on the floor beside it.)

MABEL (Addressing all,) Alright guys, looks like we have a… a friendly new face this week! (Addressing Daniel,) Go ahead and introduce yourself. Should we all– (Addressing all,) Should we all go around and introduce ourselves? (Members agree warmly. They say their names down the line until only Daniel and Mabel are left. She looks up at him encouragingly. He takes the hint.)

DANIEL Hi. I’m Daniel. Uh… I’m a sophomore. Bio major. I think I’ve seen some of you around campus but… y’know. Don’t think we’ve really met. (Other members chuckle encouragingly. A little awkward.)

MABEL Awesome! I’m Mabel, I’m a junior, I run the crier’s club– this is my place. Um, we’re happy to have you, Daniel! Do you wanna maybe share why you’re joining us today?

(Daniel fidgets nervously and clears his throat.)

DANIEL Oh, yea. Sure. I uh… I lost my dad. This past month. And I haven’t really been able to cry about it. (Club members aww sympathetically for him. A few sorrys. Daniel hates feeling pitied. Lightheartedly,) So I figured I’d, y’know, come to the experts.

MABEL (Soothing,) We’re so sorry for your loss, Daniel. (He shrugs like it’s okay.) Well, we’ll be more than happy to help with that. Um… we were actually just about to get back into the swing of things, we just wrapped up our snack break… (The cookie pack is empty. Club Member 1 with the cheezits holds out the bag– half crumbs at this point– offering it to him. He shakes his head, saying ‘no thank you’ under his breath.) But we were just gonna pick up with Alexa here, if you wanna go ahead?

ALEXA Yea, thanks Mabel. So um… this week, I’ve just… felt really homesick. I miss my parents, and I miss my friends from back home, and… (She tears up, voice breaking,) I miss my cats. (She takes a second to breathe. The member beside her rubs her shoulder comfortingly. Other members nod and hum sympathetically, deeply engaged. Daniel is frozen, staring.) I just keep seeing these really sweet cat videos on my feed and it just reminds me how special they are to me. Like they don’t even know why I’m gone, or when I’m coming back, and I can’t tell them, so I just feel bad. (Beat. Alexa wipes her eyes.) That’s all.

CLUB MEMBER 1 That’s so valid. They’re your family, too. (Passes her the tissue box.)

CLUB MEMBER 2 Have you tried facetiming with them? My dog always recognizes my voice when we do that.

ALEXA No, we’ve not. (Blows her nose.) But I like that idea. (Beat.)

MABEL Thank you for sharing, Alexa. (Snaps go around. Mabel turns to Daniel.) Daniel? You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, but the floor is yours. Whatever you wanna talk about.

DANIEL Um… alright. (Beat.) I guess… I guess I’ve just never been big on crying. My sister’s pretty sensitive, she’s a freshman here, and I don’t know how to handle it when she starts crying. I just stand there. I feel bad, y’know, I can’t comfort her. She’s always telling me I’m too tense, and that it would really help if I could… y’know. Cry. (Beat.) That’s it.

(Snaps go around. Club members nod sympathetically.)

MABEL Yea, that sounds really hard, Daniel. (Beat.) Have you tried talking about how you’re… processing it? With your friends?

DANIEL Nah. I mean— they’re great, but I dunno. I’m not really, um… comfortable. With that.

MABEL Okay, so… What about other mediums of expression? Do you play the guitar, or draw, or—

DANIEL Nah, nah. I’m not good at that.

MABEL Hm… when was the last time you cried?

DANIEL (Exhales sharply, thinking.) Probably… when my dog died. I was in… middle school? (Exasperated sounds of disbelief sweep through the club. Some ‘wow’s.) So honestly, I don’t even know if my body is capable of crying anymore.

MABEL Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case. I’m sure we could get a few tears going.

DANIEL (Skeptical,) You think so?

MABEL (Confident,) Yea! I mean sometimes the best part of crying is just the physical release, right? Doesn’t really matter what it’s about. Why don’t we… actually, why don’t we do a little exercise? Just try to flush out a few tears? I heard that sometimes, if you just make the sounds or the expressions of crying, it can trigger something.

DANIEL What?

MABEL I know it sounds silly.

DANIEL That’s not going to work–

MABEL I’ve heard it’s what actors do.

DANIEL Really–

MABEL To get into the scene. The emotions of the scene. (Beat.)

DANIEL So what do I do, then?

MABEL Well… I mean, what does crying sound like? Start with sniffling. (Daniel sniffles.) Yea, yea. Now, em, try to not… breathe as well.

DANIEL What?

MABEL Just like- choke it back. (Daniel’s breaths sound choppier.) Great, okay. Em… now… just, make some crying sounds.

DANIEL I can’t—

MABEL I’ll do it with you! Come on. (Pause. Mabel sniffles, then makes some sobbing sounds. She motions encouragingly for Daniel to join. The club members watch, morbidly entertained. Daniel attempts to make crying sounds with Mabel, but quits after 3 seconds. Mabel stops with him.)

DANIEL This isn’t working.

MABEL I know. (Long pause.) That wasn’t–

DANIEL That was awful.

MABEL I’m sorry. (Beat.) We can try something else. Or just move on.

DANIEL Please.

MABEL (Beat.) Okay, I guess it’s my turn then. Um, this week, I think I… actually, I’ve had a pretty good week. Yea! I really loved going to brunch with you guys, that was like– the best kickstart to my week in a long time. (Everyone ‘aw’s. A few ‘me too’s and ‘same’s.) Like you guys mean so much to me. Really. I love– (Mabel tears up,) you guys are my best friends. I find so much motivation in just… spending time with you, and talking about our lives and everything. (Beat.) Yea. (Mabel collects herself and says peppily,) I think that’s all I have to say this week! I might– I might come back if I think of something else. I mean, midterms are coming up. (A few people laugh. She turns to the member next to her. Encouragingly,) Go ahead.

(The lights fade out as the next person begins to share.)

Scene II

(Daniel and Harper are in the car on the way to Sonic. Harper has elected to drive so that when she brings up his first crier’s club meeting, he has no choice but to respond. We tune in mid-conversation.)

HARPER Y’know she’s started up her garden again. Says she’ll be waist-deep in tomatoes by the time we get back.

DANIEL That’s good.

HARPER Yea. I think she’s doing better.

DANIEL That’s good. (Beat.)

HARPER She always asks me about you. Says you never call. (Beat)

DANIEL Yea. I’m not much of a talker.

HARPER Oh I know. (Beat.) But I told her you were doing okay.

DANIEL That’s good. (Beat.) Thanks.

HARPER Yea. (Beat.) Are you doing okay?

DANIEL Oh yea, I’m fine.

HARPER Yea?

DANIEL Yep.

HARPER Oh. Good. (Beat.) I take it you liked the club, then?

DANIEL The club?

HARPER The crier’s club?

DANIEL Oh. Right, yea. Yea it was…

HARPER What?

DANIEL I didn’t like it.

HARPER Aw, really?

DANIEL Really.

HARPER Well, what was so bad about it?

DANIEL I dunno, it was just weird. It was all women, so–

HARPER Oh that’s it? That’s what you didn’t like–

DANIEL I don’t mean– I just mean, I didn’t fit. (Beat.)

HARPER Were they nice to you?

DANIEL Yea.

HARPER Did you feel like they were… judging you?

DANIEL No, they just… expected me to… have some big change of heart, all of a sudden.

HARPER What does that mean?

DANIEL They tried to make me cry. On cue, like, pretending to cry.

HARPER Well, that’s… a bit odd, but at least they were trying to help.

DANIEL They just wanted to fix me.

HARPER At least they were trying. (Beat.)

DANIEL You think I’m not trying?

HARPER Daniel, no, I just…

DANIEL Just what? You think I don’t care. You really don’t.

HARPER Oh come on, Daniel–

DANIEL Just say it! Just say what you want, and get it over with!

HARPER Okay, then I don’t think you’re trying! That’s what you want to hear? I don’t think you’re trying. You’re not. You went to that meeting because I begged you to, not because you thought it would work. You went in there to get me off your ass, and you told yourself you’d hate it no matter what happened. You went, but you didn’t try. You just– you shoot yourself in the foot every time, and I.. (Harper tears up. Daniel freezes.) I just don’t understand why, Daniel. I mean, I know you’re hurting. I know you are! I know you are… I am. (Beat.) Mom is on the other side of the country, so you’re the only person around here who I can really talk to about this, and you’ve just… shut me out. You shut everyone out! I can’t even imagine– (Harper calms herself, shifts her tone.) I can’t imagine how lonely that must be. (Beat. Harper wipes her eyes.) You have got to open up. Fish all that shit out of the pond before it freezes over. I still think that club might be a good idea. My roommate’s in it. I could get her to talk to Mabel, maybe ask her to tone it down a bit. I could say you’re just… shy. You’re on the quieter side, but you’ll still be there to listen and open up when you’re ready. (Beat.) And you know if you’re more comfortable talking to just one person, you can always talk to me. You should talk to me. I’m worried about you. Mom’s worried about you. (They pull up to the drive through. Harper clears her throat and rolls down her window. She speaks quietly to Daniel,) Do you want your usual? (Daniel nods.) Okay. (To the speaker,) Hi, can I g– I’m doing good, thank you! How about you? Good, good, uh, can I have a number one combo with Dr. Pepper, and two– (Daniel nudges her and holds up the number three. She whispers,) Three, really? Okay, okay– (To the speaker,) and three orders of mozzarella sticks. Yes. Oh, and a water. Yes. That all sounds perfect. Thank you! (They pull into the queue for the pickup window. They come to a stop. Beat.) Do you remember when dad would take us through the drive through back home? The only times he’d take us? When we won a game, or we made an A, or when you broke your arm… (Beat.) I remember in high school, like… sophomore year, that guy stood me up at Homecoming. And you were there with your girlfriend and your friends, and you were all having fun, and I didn’t want to ruin it, so I just hid in the bathroom. But you came and found me and– do you remember what you did? (They’re both smiling now.) You left the dance and took me to a McDonalds. I still think about that. (Beat.) It meant so much to me. (An employee hands them their food from the window.) Thank you so much! Yea, you too. (Harper hands Daniel the bag to sort through while she pulls into a parking space.) You’re a good person, Daniel. You have the… the ability to show up. I’ve seen it. (They unbuckle their seatbelts. Harper says thank you as she’s handed her food.) You just need to tap back into that. I feel like that club could be a really good–

DANIEL Okay, I’ll go back. (Beat.)

HARPER Really? You will?

DANIEL Yes, I will. Just eat.

HARPER Okay. Thank you.

DANIEL Yea. (They take the first bite of their food and melt from all the delicious artificial flavors.)

HARPER Fuck this is so good.

DANIEL Mhmm.

Scene III

(A few weeks pass of Daniel attending meetings. We open in Mabel’s apartment: she’s setting up and welcoming back the regular members of the crier’s club. They mingle for a minute before there’s a knock at the door. Mabel looks excited when she goes to answer. Harper steps in.)

MABEL Hey girl! Welcome! (She pulls her in for a hug.)

HARPER Oh– hi!

MABEL (Turning to everyone,) Guys, this is Harper. Daniel’s little sister.

(Everyone waves and says “hi Harper!”)

HARPER (Nervously,) Hey!

MABEL (Addressing Harper,) I’m so happy you could make it. This is gonna be so good.

HARPER Yea, I’m really excited. How’s he been? He’s not any trouble for you, I hope.

MABEL No, he’s an angel! He’s been– wait, you mean Daniel, or the… (They laugh.) Okay, yea, he’s been good. I kinda wish I could keep him!

HARPER Yea, he is really cute. Thank you, again, for agreeing to help me out with this.

MABEL Oh my god, of course. I’m literally so excited.

HARPER Me too. I think this will mean a lot to him. Y’know, the last time I think I ever saw him cry was when we lost–

MABEL Lost your dog. Yea, he said something about that during his first meeting.

HARPER Aw, really?

MABEL Yea. And I just have to say, he’s really grown on everyone. Like, he’s so reliable and polite, and he actually talked about your dad last time. It was so sweet.

HARPER Dude, that makes me so happy. I’m just… I’m so glad he’s been trying. I really think this whole group has been good for him.

MABEL Really? Aw, that means the world to me. I really try, y’know. I wanna help people.

HARPER I know you do. And you do, I mean, you help.

MABEL Thank you Harper.

HARPER Yea. Thank you. And y’know, aside from that, I’m glad everything worked out logistically.

MABEL Yea, I mean as long as my landlord doesn’t find out. (They laugh.)

HARPER So how are we gonna play this? I mean, everyone else knows, right?

MABEL Yea, yea, they all know. I told them we’d start with Daniel for sharing.

HARPER Okay, good. So should I like, hide? Or…

MABEL Yea! Maybe hang out in the back and keep him quiet until the reveal. He’s just in my room.

HARPER Okay, I can do that.

MABEL And you parked far enough away?

HARPER Yea, like on the other side of the complex.

MABEL Okay perfect. Do you want like a snack first, or…

HARPER I’m okay, thank you.

MABEL Okay okay. Feel free to mingle then, I know Alexa’s your roommate, so she probably–

(There’s a knock at the door.)

MABEL (Hushed,) Shit, is he early?

HARPER He’s never early. (She goes over to the peephole.) Shit, he’s early!

MABEL (Mabel laughs quietly, shooing Harper out of the room.) Go, go! (When Harper is out of sight, Mabel opens the door. Daniel steps in. Everyone says,) Hi Daniel!

DANIEL: Hey guys! Hey Mabel. (He looks around,) Damn, am I the last one? I thought I was early?

MABEL You are! We all just… ended up here early today.

DANIEL Oh, okay. Is that normal?

MABEL Psshh yea, we all… we all like to get here like 15… 30 minutes early. Just to hang out.

DANIEL Ah.

MABEL Why are you here so early?

DANIEL (Nervously,) Oh, just… to hang out.

MABEL (Beat. In a knowing tone,) Yea? To hang out?

DANIEL Yea.

MABEL Really?

DANIEL Well, I kinda wanted to talk to you, actually.

MABEL Yea?

DANIEL (Daniel hesitates, flushing.) Yea. I just wanted to say you’re really great.

MABEL (Flattered.) Aw, Daniel.

DANIEL Yea. And– yea. That’s it.

MABEL That’s it? (Daniel struggles with what to say. Mabel grabs his hand and squeezes it.) Do you wanna talk after the meeting, when it’s just us? (Daniel looks down at their hands and squeezes hers back.)

DANIEL Yea, sure.

MABEL Okay. (She lets go of his hand and turns to address everyone.) Alright guys! Looks like we have everyone, so we’ll just get started a little early this week, if that’s okay? (Everyone agrees.) Okay, awesome! (Everyone finds their places around the semi-circle.) Everyone settled? Set on snacks? Yea? Okay perfect, um… I think this week, why don’t we mix it up a bit? Yea? Start maybe mid-circle? (She looks at Daniel.)

DANIEL Oh, you mean…? Okay, yea, sure. Um…

MABEL Is that okay?

DANIEL Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks. (Daniel shifts in his seat, clearly thinking hard.) This week… this week has been good. I’ve been talking to my sister more. You guys know how she’s been worried, and… I dunno, she’s been laying off. She’s still upset about our dad, but when she calls me now it’s not because she’s worried about me, it’s just because she wants to talk about how she’s feeling. She said she likes talking to me. (Beat.) That feels nice. (Everyone ‘aw’s.)

MABEL That’s so sweet, Daniel. I can tell your sister really means a lot to you.

DANIEL Yea. She does… I wanna take care of her, y’know. She takes care of me.

MABEL Yea. That’s what you do. And I think you’re making her really proud, just being here and talking to us. I know all of us here are really happy to have you in the club. (Everyone agrees.)

DANIEL Thank you.

MABEL We actually… (Mabel laughs nervously,) We actually got you a little something, just like… an early birthday present. (Mabel stands.)

DANIEL But my birthday’s in July?

MABEL It’s a really early present! (Everyone giggles excitedly as Mabel heads off down the hall. Beat.)

DANIEL (Looking around at everyone, smiling nervously.) What’s going on?

(Everyone stalls giddily, avoiding his question. Mabel comes back from the hall with Harper behind her, who is holding a small puppy. She stands against the wall to give them space. Daniel turns around in his seat and immediately stands with surprise.) Woah, Harper?

HARPER Hi Daniel.

DANIEL Who is this?

HARPER He doesn’t have a name yet.

DANIEL Well, who’s…

HARPER He’s yours. (Beat.) We already talked to your landlord. Everything’s worked out. (Daniel wordlessly takes the puppy in his arms. Beat.)

DANIEL He’s really mine? (Harper nods, wiping her eyes.) This is my dog?

HARPER This is your dog. You get to take care of him. And be his best friend.

(Daniel goes quiet, eyes down, petting the dog. Wordlessly, he hands Mabel the puppy and pulls Harper in for a hug, holding her tightly. He keeps his eyes down, but it’s clear from his voice that he’s begun to cry.)

DANIEL Thank you.

(Beat.)

HARPER I love you.

DANIEL I love you.

(Beat. Daniel pulls away and wipes his eyes quickly, looking over at Mabel, who is also crying. She hands him back the puppy.)

DANIEL You had a part in this?

MABEL (Nodding,) Yea.

DANIEL Thank you.

MABEL Of course. You look good together.

DANIEL (Laughs, looking around.) You all knew about this? (Everyone nods and says yes.) Wow. (Beat.)

HARPER Do you know what you’re gonna name him?

DANIEL Nope.

HARPER That’s okay. Do you want help bringing him home?

DANIEL Um… yea, sure.

HARPER Okay, if you wanna give me your keys–

DANIEL Actually, can it– sorry, can it wait until after the meeting? (Mabel is touched to hear this. Harper smiles.)

HARPER Yea, of course.

(Fade out to black.)

Scene IV

(We’re in Daniel’s apartment. The room is monochromatic and dull besides the brightly colored puppy toys. Daniel is sitting on the couch on his phone. He’s dressed a little nicer than usual, tapping his foot nervously. His phone pings with a text. In response, Daniel stands and heads for the door, letting Harper in.)

DANIEL Hey, how are you?

HARPER Hey! Oh– (He pulls her in for a quick hug, surprising her.) Hi! (She hugs him back.) You’re in a good mood.

DANIEL Yes. (He takes her coat and hangs it up for her.)

HARPER Wow, look at you! You look nice!

DANIEL Thank you.

HARPER Did you shower? (Harper sits on the couch to untie her shoes.)

DANIEL Yes.

HARPER So you’re excited then?

DANIEL Yea.

HARPER Awesome. I hope it goes well, Mabel’s really cool.

DANIEL Yea, she is.

HARPER Just remember you’re buying the tickets. If she gets her card out, you’ve gotta step in–

DANIEL I know I know, I’m paying.

HARPER Okay, good. Good. (Beat. Harper sets her shoes back against the wall.)

DANIEL I know what I’m gonna name him.

HARPER Oh my gosh, really! What?

DANIEL Do you remember that little uh… that little bear, blanket thing, I had as a kid?

HARPER The one dad gave you?

DANIEL Yea.

HARPER Yea, of course I remember that! You carried it everywhere. It was always sopping wet because you wouldn’t take it out of your mouth–

DANIEL (Embarrassed, interrupting,) Yea–

HARPER And when you got mad you would slam it against the wall, and it would make this loud thud–

DANIEL Oh my god–

HARPER And it would leave this big splat on the wall–

DANIEL Harper!

HARPER What even happened to that? Did we lose it–

DANIEL We lost it in the move.

HARPER That’s right, okay. Did it even have a name? Wasn’t it just ‘bear’?

DANIEL (Hesitating, rethinking his choice,) Yea. It was Bear.

HARPER (Realizing she’s made him nervous to share, shifting her tone to sound more encouraging,) So you’re naming him Bear? (Daniel hesitates.) That’s so cute! I love Bear!

DANIEL Really?

HARPER Yea, he looks like a Bear.

DANIEL (Beat.) Yea. I think so too.

HARPER Where is he now?

DANIEL Asleep. On my bed.

HARPER Aw, has he been sleeping with you? (Daniel nods.) That’s so sweet!

DANIEL Yea, he’s great.

HARPER And you’re happy with him? We picked a good one?

DANIEL You did a great job.

HARPER Thank you. (Beat.) You’ve been doing a great job, too.

DANIEL (Teasing,) What?

HARPER Just in general, I dunno! You’re less… stubborn. Than usual.

DANIEL Oh, well don’t go all sentimental on me now–

HARPER Oh, of course not, of course not. Wouldn’t wanna make you cry. (They laugh.)

DANIEL (Putting on his jacket,) I gotta go and get Mabel now, but thanks again for doing this.

HARPER Of course. I’ll be the best aunt ever.

DANIEL You will. (Beat.) I’ll be back before midnight.

HARPER (Surprised,) Midnight? (Daniel gives her a look.) Fine, midnight.

DANIEL And no parties.

HARPER Can Bear and I party, just us two?

DANIEL Um… that should be okay.

HARPER Sweet. (She starts snooping through Daniel’s fridge.)

DANIEL Just don’t drink my liquor.

HARPER Ugh, what! What about just one beer?

DANIEL No.

HARPER Come on, please? I’m gonna be here basically all night! (Beat.)

DANIEL Just one?

HARPER Yea.

DANIEL (Repeating himself,) Just one beer?

HARPER (Exasperated,) Yes!

DANIEL Fine.

HARPER Le't’s go!

DANIEL If I see more than one gone when I come back–

HARPER I know, I know! (Rushing him toward the door,) Don’t worry about it, just go! you’re gonna be late.

DANIEL O-Okay, I’m going. I’ll see you soon.

HARPER See ya! (Harper shuts the door with a smile on her face. Things are better. She walks over to the fridge and pulls out a single beer, opening it and taking a sip. She cringes) Euck, I hate beer. (She closes the fridge and takes another sip. She exits down the hallway.) Bear! Wake up, buddy!

END

In my girl-world, everything was alive, had feelings, and had to be expressly appreciated in order for me to feel like I was doing a good job taking care of them.

As an adult, I still do this, just in other ways.

I frequently cry over little things-- from daunting, existential questions to sentimental cat videos. I still mourn the teddy bear I lost in kindergarten after a tree fell on our house. I cry over my late cat, who passed over six years ago, as well as pre-mourn my current cat (who is only two and perfectly healthy). If I think about how much I love my friends, my family, or my partner… waterworks.

I find myself in this headspace so often that I’ve come up with a phrase to let my friends know when I’m feeling weepy: “heart too big, care too much, love too hard.” My mom calls it “big-heartedness”.

During my time in college, however, I’ve gone from viewing this sensitivity as a burden to a (slightly inconvenient) blessing.

I came into college having fairly little experience with the dating world, and decided that there was no time like freshman year to dive in head-first. I tried convincing myself I could be casual with people-- that I could be happy juggling a handful of nonchalant, unofficial arrangements at any time-- but I always found myself craving more. I gave it the old college try, as my freshman roommate would say.

In time, however, I learned that my heart was not built for love at a distance.

My most vivid and meaningful memories from freshman year come from moments of authenticity-- when I allowed myself to be sensitive, to show how deeply I cared, and in turn, felt that reciprocated. It’s how I’ve made and kept my closest friends in college.

Now I love to cry. It’s my favorite form of release, and my favorite way to connect with other people. Vulnerability is the best icebreaker!

As a rising senior in college, I wear my heart on my sleeve. That leaves me more susceptible to hurt, of course, but also enables me to experience joy to the fullest. I know in moments of levity just how precious they are, so I do everything I can to cherish them and let my friends know how much they are treasured.

To care so deeply is a burden that I carry and encourage with full confidence. It’s not only the way I choose to foster deep friendships, but also how I make a difference in my community.

Anytime I begin to feel dread about the world (which for most people nowadays, is fairly often), I ask myself, “what can I do?”

The answer is almost always something small. Volunteering at my local shelter, attending an event at my local library, donating some old clothes, etc. You don’t have to do something big to make an impact. Oftentimes, just caring enough to show up means the world.

I found myself asking that question just over a year ago, when news about the escalating conflict in Gaza began more heavily circulating. Like many people, I felt bogged down by everything I saw, and was tempted to simply delete social media from my phone. I felt helpless. Looking at the problem big-picture, I thought there wasn’t much I could do-- especially as a full-time student with a part-time job.

But I kept thinking back to it. Eventually, I realized that while I was unable to dedicate something groundbreaking, I could help in my own special way. I revisited a high-school hobby, jewelry making, and began to sell in my campus coffee shop. All the proceeds went to Doctors Without Borders and the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund.

I had no idea how successful it would be when I first put it out-- no idea how likely people were to be inspired (or upset) by my sign-- but I ended up donating around $500 that semester. And $500 the next.

In the grand scheme of things, $1000 is pocket change. My money likely funded a handful of daily tasks for these charities. Yet I look at that number with pride, because it means I can do something-- that with a little effort over a long time, I can care enough to make a difference.

As Dr. Seuss says,

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to change. It’s not.”

(It rhymes, so it has to be true. Fun fact.)

Keep caring :)

Thanks for reading!

Growing thin, knobbly, weak

As the legs of a fawn

Calling for its mother, stumbling

Into the sopping leaves.

The hand reaches up for

Warmth, warmth, warmth,

Belly-up, expectant, prideful.

The bark grows tough and strips

down to its skin.

A lovers’ hammock with one

end tied, the lonely breath

of a flapping flag.

A paintbrush plunges

past the taut surface, dragging, slicing

through landscape and portrait and still life,

the gangly remains of the cotton,

the death of a child.

The bleating of bodies

Freshly shorn, shivering,

the tag, the brand,

the calf’s tender muscles,

the collapsing yeast,

razor blades across fresh dough,

art on the edge of life and death.

What is more pure than the sterile breath

of a less than blank canvas, than a shaking hand

carving into young skin?

Fairies and fairy tales haven’t always ended happily ever after. As many readers know, plenty of modern fairy tales originate from the brothers Grimm, whose discography is far from what we would consider family-friendly now.

But it goes further than that!

Contemporary fantasy is the product of high-society Victorian-age rebranding. Upper class writers took loose (and I mean loose) inspiration from Celtic fairy tales, rewriting 2-dimensional cautionary tales into something more suitable for children’s bedtime stories.

Upper class families began enjoying fairy books, dancing nymphs, and clapping to bring Tinkerbell back to life. In lower class households, however, where genuine faith in fairies still remained, fairies were not seen as sweet little winged creatures; they were still the tricky, capricious beings of oral folk tradition. Just as they had been for thousands of years.

In the years following Queen Victoria’s coronation, England experienced what has been coined as the “golden age for the literary fairy tale”, wherein fantasy stories grew largely in popularity. This was due in part to the advances in cheap printing methods, allowing for the market on children’s stories to blossom.

Notably, the brothers Grimm tapped into this lucrative trade by revising their collection to make the tales more suitable for young readers. This meant the simplification of complex storylines, the censorship of more graphic details, and the conformity of characters and interpersonal dynamics to Victorian-era family values and gender ideals.

Following closely beside this literary boom was Walt Disney, who took from these heavily revised children’s stories and simplified them even more. In response to criticism of the extensive changes he’d made of fairy tales like Snow White, Disney said: “It’s just that people now don’t want fairy stories the way they were written. They were too rough. In the end they’ll probably remember the story the way we film it anyway.”

From this era onward is where we find the most common modern-day understanding of fairy tales and folklore. The reason these age-old legends and cryptids have an enduring appeal in contemporary fantasy literature and film is because they are not the same stories. They are heavily influenced by the most popular versions of fairy folklore: the simplified, commodified, and romanticised. They are rewrites of rewrites of rewrites, meant to capture the attention of audiences and please them for as long as possible.

I don’t mean to sound entirely pessimistic. Contemporary fantasy, however it has come to exist now, has the potential to impact audiences in a meaningful way, just like any other genre of writing. Many fantasy authors use their stories as allegories for real-world problems, political climates, to comment on class, war, gender, to honor the folklore of ancient world cultures, etc.

Fantasy is a powerful tool, limited only by the imagination.

I think about the origins of my story often as a fantasy writer. With the genre’s renaissance in recent years, it’s important to me that my work stands out as entertaining, yet respectful-- both to its archaic inspiration and to the interests of contemporary readers.

When facing this dilemma, I remind myself that fantasy and fairy tales are ancient. Many of them were passed down through oral tradition for generations before being recorded in written history, so it’s impossible to know with full confidence whether even our oldest sources are faithful to their true originals.

There is also something to be said for the playful experimenting and reworking of these stories-- that’s part of the joy of storytelling! The absorption and commodification of fairy folklore is problematic for plenty of reasons, but it is nonetheless a credit to the genre’s foundation as a popular subject. Fantasy as we know it now would not exist without this historic rebranding.

The role that contemporary fantasy should be playing, then, lies in both working with and around the history of its inspiration. It’s impossible to honor everything and everyone, yet a storyteller’s effort to be respectful, teach lessons, and have fun will always read as genuine to their audience.

(To read more on this, check out my article, “The Politics of Escapism in Fantasy”!)

Thanks for reading!

Sources:

Celtic Myth & Legend course, taught by Professor Mich Piazza

Steel Thistles: Fairytale Reflections (22) Terri Windling

Medium: Victorian Mores in a Modern World

Washington University Department of English: Tradition and Transformation

I started writing this book in my senior year of high school. It began in a creative writing class as a response to the prompt, “write from the perspective of a character doing something you don’t understand.” I’d read that morning that homicide victims (women, specifically) are most likely to have been killed by their intimate partners. As a romantic, that astounded me. I could never kill someone I loved so dearly. It’s difficult to hate, let alone hurt impactful people in my life, even as they come and go.

Regardless, I decided to try writing from the perspective of a murderer. I realized quickly that what would make for a bigger challenge (and a more interesting read) would not be to try and moralize this character; I wouldn’t craft their sin out of self-defense. The opposite, rather. I made an assassin.

I began to build a fantasy world around this encounter-- an assassin-- a princess?-- a princess assassin… killing a king she’d fallen in love with. An accidental connection. Sprinkle some magic in! I wrote the scene for my class and (pun intended) it killed.

I’d read fantasy before, but never written it. I was hooked.

I carried that story into college, kept the murder as the opening scene, and expanded it across three years of workshop. I ended up with what I thought were 50 very promising pages.

Then, I stopped.

I’d never experienced writer’s block like that. I revised my pages a hundred times, and every time I found more obstacles to write around. My plot was growing unstable and convoluted. There was always more to explain, more to work around, things from my high school short story that I struggled to carry into a full-length novel.

I’ve been stuck at 50 pages for over a year. I convinced myself this was because I’d fallen out of love with writing, that my story was a bad idea to begin with, that I wasn’t dedicated enough to my craft, etc.

When I studied abroad, one of the best (and most outlandish) pieces of advice I received from my short story professor was to start clean. Any longer piece of work that you were stuck on, any narrative you struggled to grow… open a fresh document and write from memory. The best things will stay, and the obstacles will be easier to avoid in retrospect.

I thought it was solid advice, but nothing that applied to me and my story. That was months ago.

About two weeks ago, while talking to myself (a very important habit for me; if you’ve not read my article “The Magic of Talking to Yourself”, I highly recommend) I decided I needed to follow both my professor’s and my own advice, and kill my baby (a morbid phrase which I explain in my article, “Advice that Changed the Way I Write” :D.)

It hadn’t occurred to me before that I could simply let go. With respect to my past self and all her contributions, not all ideas can be winners. Even the founding ones. I’ve decided that while I’m still very much in love with the world and the characters I’ve built, I need a new point of entry. I don’t need a (pun intended) killer hook when I can dedicate my first few chapters to slower development.

So yes, I’m starting over. It will be a long journey back to the level of progress I was at before. But yesterday I opened a fresh planning document, leaving behind the others-- all intimidatingly dense-- and fell back in love with my story for the first time in a year.

I’m excited to share my progress as I write this summer!

My friend and I decided it would be fun to start writing poems together. We looked up a random word generator, picked a word for each other, and took 10 minutes to write a poem inspired by the word. We had full creative freedom, and were both really happy with how our poems turned out! It was so easy and rewarding that we decided we’d start doing it every week.

My word this week was “outline”. Here’s my poem!

Outline

Polar plunge in a leech-filled lake

the bite of the cold and the teeth

sinking

Heavy water on sore shoulders

the muffling of the light

the thrum of the deep

Warmth unraveling

from the spool in my ribs

slow, slow

The bubbles, a quiet surrender,

leave an outline of my descent

a delicate, trickling line

They rise, fossilize

forming crystalline shells

bodies cradled in the glacier

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you try this out :)

Leave a comment

I flew over that all-familiar pothole in the road. The car shook, its janky shocks taking a moment to reorient. My teeth sunk into the tip of my finger. Blood on the tip of my tongue. I pressed my thumb into the skin around it and watched as the blood oozed, flowing down the river beds of my fingerprint.

Guilt washed over me.

Maybe Amanda was right. Maybe I have been acting impulsively, helpless to the urge. Even when I knew she was just one small thing away from breaking, I kept going, and I was the one who pushed her over the edge.

I sucked at my fingertip, pressing my tongue against the puncture to stop the bleeding. I steered with one hand as the trees trickled in. Naked woods slowly encased the winding road, a canopy of heavy limbs curling in on themselves. The road slowly turned to gravel under my wheels.

I rounded a sharp corner. My phone thudded as it slipped into the crack between the seat and the console. I scoffed, wedging my hand in the crack, scrambling for it.

A rabbit jumped out in front of the car-- maybe a hundred feet away. I abandoned the phone, both hands shooting to the wheel. I would have slowed down, skidded to a stop, swerved… but I froze, plowing ahead at top speed. I hit the rabbit. I could have sworn I heard the crunch.

I took my foot off the gas, hands gripping tightly at the wheel. The car slowed. My foot hovered back over the gas, looking at the road ahead of me. It would’ve been so easy just to keep driving. But dread brewed in my gut. The idea of another small, innocent creature, dying alone when I could’ve done more…

I pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, cut the engine and hopped out of the car. I left the door ajar and didn’t bother fishing my phone out from under the seat.

The rabbit laid in the road, legs crushed, frantically trying to run away with only the upper half of its bloodied body. The site was nauseating.

I approached the rabbit slowly. Kneeling to the ground, I extended a hand, hovering just above its blood-soaked fur. At first, it cried out in fear, shrieking at my touch. Then, slowly, I felt its hummingbird heart slow, breath steadying.

I sat cross-legged on the gravel road. Carefully, I pulled the rabbit into my lap, limp legs dragging behind it. Its head rested in the crook of my arm. It resisted at first, but eventually let out a sharp breath, relinquishing, melting into my arms. I stroked the fur along its back, massaged its plush ears, rocked back and forth… and stifled myself. I had to be strong.

I cradled the rabbit until its gentle heart slowed to a stop, blowing out one final, guileless breath. Only then did I allow myself to cry.

I sat like that, mourning the dead, until my eyes were dry and my chest felt hollow. My pants were caked in the now-dried blood. It had gone cold, stiffening, but still, I stroked its fur. I couldn’t look away.

I should have been back by now. It had to have been over an hour since I’d left home. At least I guessed so. I was never any good at keeping track of time, but Amanda had to have noticed by now that I had left. She would come for me soon. I didn’t want her to worry, didn’t want her dragging herself out of the house to come find me… at least at first. Maybe, I thought, I did want her to come after all. To seek me out. To worry about me.

Just to know that she still would.

Maybe that’s why I stayed, sat in the middle of the road, as I heard the distant crunch of gravel under her wheels. I didn’t flinch, didn’t lift my head. Even as she rounded the corner and barreled towards me.

She didn’t see me.

Her eyes were clouded.

Fear flickered in my chest. I stopped petting the rabbit, my hand resting across its back. Her eyes finally landed on me. I’d never seen panic like that, so sudden and visceral.

She was about a hundred feet away— just where I had been. My body tensed. I shut my eyes and clutched the rabbit to my chest, bracing for the worst.

She slammed on the brakes.

The car skidded to a stop.

I opened my eyes to see the bumper, bobbing back and forth before me, only a few feet away.

She put the car in park, jumping out and slamming the door behind her. Her gaze met mine, a fiery mix of concern and rage, before falling lower, landing on the rabbit. The sight of me, teary-eyed, frozen, with a body in my arms… I saw the déjà vu flicker on her face. I was a statue as she spoke.

“What the hell, Kate?” Amanda asked, exasperated.

I swallowed dryly, my voice hoarse.

“I killed it,”

“You hit the rabbit?”

“I killed our baby,”

She froze. The surrounding wood went dead silent.

“I’m sorry,” I said, choking on a sob.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said after a moment, her own voice shaking.

“There must have been something I could have done,”
Stepping closer, she sat beside me, laying her head on my shoulder.

“There was nothing…” she paused, inhaling deeply, “I’m sorry. I should never have blamed you. I don’t blame you, really. I never did. I was just angry,” I listened quietly, laying my head atop hers.

“She just… didn’t make it. It happens.”

“But it was my turn to check on her before bed,” I protested, voice breaking, “and I forgot. I just fell asleep, and… Maybe I would’ve noticed that something was off, maybe I could have done something,”

“I know,” She wrapped herself around me, pulling me into an embrace. The rabbit fell from my lap and onto the gravel road. For a moment, we just cried, tangled tightly in each other’s arms. I’d forgotten how warm it felt to be held by her.

I pulled away, resting my forehead on hers.

“I couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore, with the crib, and all her toys, and all those clothes she’ll never wear…” I spoke in that awful, pitchy voice I get when I cry, “Even the diapers in the back of your car… I just couldn’t escape it,”

She listened, letting the silence between my words linger.

“The funeral…” I shook my head at the memory, “felt so cold.” The sight of our daughter’s small, pale face in that cold, hard coffin…it’d been burned into the back of my mind. I saw her whenever I closed my eyes. Amanda nodded, squeezing my hands.

“It did,” she conceded. I knew she was picturing her now, too.

Her eyes floated to the rabbit, an idea sparking behind them. She rose slowly, pulling me with her.

“Let’s have a better one,” she gestured to the rabbit. My brows furrowed with confusion at first, but then I understood. I lifted the rabbit’s body, cradling it gently in my arms, and followed as she led us off the road and into the forest. Every step was cautious and heavy.

We found a small clearing. Sun shone through the bare branches, showering the wild grass in golden-white layers. Without words, she knelt in the center and plunged her hands into the soft ground. I knelt across from her and did the same, setting the rabbit to the side.

We dug a grave together. Every motion sent grief shuddering through my body. When it was deep enough, we lifted the rabbit’s body, lowering it into the earth. For a moment, I gripped her hands, my eyes locked on the small, innocent frame. She sniffled, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

It wasn’t fair.

We were ready to be mothers. My wife, especially— with her guiding hands, stoic strength and unyielding spirit, lifting me up while the world weighed on her shoulders. Even now, she breathed jaggedly before me, smothering herself.

I was stupid to have left. With the way things were, of course she had been different. I saw how she dragged herself out of bed every morning after, not missing a single day of work. I heard how she cried when she thought I wasn’t around. She acted so indifferent, and I was tired of grieving alone.

I pushed her that day. I wanted her to show me her pain, to tell me what I already knew, to fall apart in my arms so that I could put her back together. So that I could do something. I pushed her, even when I knew she was just one small thing away from breaking, and she exploded. She spat fire, her eyes ran dry, her voice went hoarse, and she blamed me. She locked herself in the nursery and refused to come out. I got what I thought I wanted, and then left.

Not for good: just to clear my head, but I shouldn’t have left her to pick up the pieces alone.

I began scooping dirt back into the grave, over the top of the rabbit. She hesitated for a moment before joining me. The hole filled slowly. Once it was covered, we packed the dirt down. I placed my hands atop hers, pressing into the earth with our palms.

It was true that we had more to give. But I realized, then, that it was not lost. It was not gone. I’d forgotten it amidst my grief, but it was still there.

I lost the rabbit. We lost our baby. For a moment, I was afraid I’d lost Amanda, too. But as I stared at my wife, open and hurting and beautiful, I knew that wasn’t what mattered. In that low place, finally, I could see her. She’d lost everything, too, and she was still there. Reaching. Giving us— giving me— everything she could.

All I could do, then, was love her in return. I reached up to cup her face, wiping a tear from her cheek, guiding her eyes to mine.

“Let’s go home.”

1. Start with an abstract.

One of my favorite writing exercises I’ve done went as follows: Create a list of concepts that intrigue you. Don’t worry about them being related, and be as straightforward as you can. Your list can range anywhere from “ponies” to “murder”. Now take two of those concepts, preferably contrasting, and create a story between them. Use your imagination!

I used this exercise to write a short story called Luck of the Rabbit*, using the concepts “motherhood” and “roadkill”.

My professor and advisor, Kevin Wilson, used the concepts “babysitting” and “spontaneous combustion” to write his New York Times Bestseller, Nothing to See Here.

2. Hold your story loosely.

Sometimes it’s easier to begin writing a story with an ending in mind. It gives you direction from the beginning-- something to work towards. However, I’ve learned that this idea often only leads you to a brick wall. Writer’s block is hard to overcome when you’ve set your plot in stone.

Instead, let yourself explore! Experiment with various paths and solutions. Even if you don’t enjoy branching off at first, oftentimes you’ll surprise yourself by liking one of your new ideas more.

3. Focus on motivations.

Your characters should not be pulled from a prewritten plot-- they should be what inspires the plot in the first place. What makes the most sense for your characters? What drives them? How would they realistically react to conflict? If it feels forced, you’re holding on too tightly to what you want to happen. A story is a living, breathing entity. You’ll smother it if you don’t let it naturally unfold.

I’ve fallen into this trap before. I’ll start writing with a scene in mind, not knowing who my characters are, and try to craft my characters around that exact moment, that exact visual.

Rarely does it work out that way. I’ve learned over the years that it’s okay to let go of what inspired you in the first place. It’s good to have a story so potent that it grows out of its shoes!

4. Kill your baby.

This morbid phrase lends itself to the kind of feeling a writer gets when they delete their own creation. It’s a painful sacrifice. However, fiction can be easy to convolute. Adding too many plot points, too many characters, or staying overly ambitious can lead to a messy plot line and an exhausted reader.

It’s a wonderful feeling to create. To brainstorm, to plan, to build worlds and let your imagination run wild. I love creating to my heart’s content, but I keep in mind that there will always be fluff to cut off. It’s good to practice letting go. Deadheading, however counteractive it seems at the moment, eventually leads to bigger, better growth.

*Let me know if you’d like to read my short story, Luck of the Rabbit!

If you’ve ever been asked this question, it’s likely been out of concern or judgement. You’re not supposed to talk to yourself. It’s weird, and it makes other people uncomfortable. What’s the first thing you’d typically think if you heard someone muttering to themselves?

Probably that something was wrong.

But why?

When I think back to some of my most formative childhood years, I think about the kind of dialogue I would have with myself during play. I made up stories about love, loss, action and drama… I used to host an ‘extreme competition game-show’ where I loosely taped my Barbies to the blades of my ceiling fan, turned it on, and the last doll to fly off won. I hid the stuff that broke.

Play wasn’t just about entertainment, though. It was about processing. I played through stories about arguments between friends, complicated family dynamics, conflicts in school, etc. The dialogue I created helped me to take an objective perspective while also sympathizing with all my characters. My imagination ran via a spoken train of thought.

Of course, as most kids do, I grew out of play. I entered the phase between childhood and adulthood where I simply had to be taken seriously. That excluded play, and it definitely excluded talking to myself. My personality from that point on developed around the other people I spent time with, rather than the things I did on my own.

Only in quarantine did I rediscover the magic of inner dialogue. In the midst of a solitary time, the kitchen, randomly enough, became a space where I could create a world of my own. Where I felt like I had the most me-time, away from homework and social media, keeping my hands busy and my mind blank. Where I could play!

I began to bake, to cook, and I began talking to myself again. It felt awkward at first-- like riding a bike after years of disuse, but I eventually got used to the sound of my own voice. I narrated recipes to an imaginary audience. I told jokes. I rambled on about the things I liked or wanted to try. I talked through conversations I wanted to have, voicing myself as well as other people (which included both real, serious conversations, and the rare chance that I’d be on a late night talk show.)

All that empty space became a diary for stories and scenarios, both real and imagined.

It was during this time that I began to rediscover who I was. As someone who spent her tween years glued both to social media and to others, I’d forgotten what I liked. How I naturally talked. What my opinions were. I’d lost myself in a sea of other voices, and I had to dig deep to uncover the girl at my core once again.

I think I’ll always, in some way or another, be digging for that girl. Not in the sense that I want to be the same person I was at 8 years old, but that I don’t want to leave her behind. I strive today to simultaneously grow and carry her with me.

Sometimes I wonder if she’d be proud of the woman I’ve become. It’s a hard question to answer, since it’s impossible to truly know, but it’s easier to imagine when I can hear her voice speaking through my own.

(Don’t misread this article as making fun or pointing fingers-- I’ve read these books, too.)

This series arguably sparked a renaissance amongst young readers. Tiktok’s #Booktok worked to promote like-minded series such as Rebecca Yarros’ Fourth Wing and Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince. Countless others have followed in their footsteps, leading to not only a rise in engaged readers across all genres, but also in what is now, arguably, an oversaturated fantasy scene.

Don’t get me wrong-- the combination of romance and fantasy together can make for a whimsical and alluring storyline. However, many of these new releases have gained infamy because of how heavily these narratives rely on their sexual dynamics, and how this sexy crutch works against the importance of its own plot. To put it simply, the story loses relevance when all their characters do is have sex.

“Romantasy” titles have built up a reputation around this kind of skewed writing. One example in particular strikes me from a later book in the ACOTAR series, where the main character and her “mate” are having sex in the middle of a war camp. To quote it directly, “His growls of pleasure filled the tent, drowning out the distant cries of the injured and dying,” (A Court of Wings and Ruin, page 380). Quite the ignorantly written line! Especially amongst its hyper-engaged and media-literate audience, indulging in eroticism amidst a warzone feels (to say the least) out of touch. It’s hard to read stories like these without picturing their real world equivalents. If two world leaders were to have audible intimacy in the middle of a refugee camp now, it wouldn’t be sexy. It would be catastrophic!

It comes to a point in narratives like these where the question arises: to what extent can we use fantasy as escapism? Not only in romantic works, but across the genre as a whole.

Plenty of fantasy titles purposefully use real-world allegories to make commentary on class, race, and war, such as poverty and censorship in Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, classism and rebellion in Pierce Brown’s Red Rising, and drug wars and opioid addiction in R.F. Kuang’s The Poppy War. It’s a marvel that readers like me use these books as a way to escape from our world when they so heavily rely on real and ongoing global conflicts.

But just as readers can find a way to fictionalize and distance themselves from intentional politics, they can just as easily point out unintentional politics within other novels.

For example, one of the most popular tropes in new fantasy books is to use this revamped idea of fairies, dubbed, “the Fae”-- a humanoid race that possesses magical abilities and superhuman good looks. They’re tall, glowy, thin, and hot as can be. However, when describing “the Fae” with this kind of inhuman beauty, it begs the question: is this purely a work of popular fiction, or is it a reflection of real-world eugenics? Can it be both?

Even in origin, the “Fae” we know now were created as a way to explain real-world issues. “Fairy” began in ancient Celtic myths and legends as a word used to describe any kind of magical creature: including goblins, leprechauns, sprites and selkies, alongside what we would most likely recognize today as our tall and magical Fae race, the Tuatha de Danann (too-uh day dan-un).

The legend goes that the Tuatha inhabited Ireland before the arrival of mankind as we know it now. But even being such strong, powerful beings could not keep them from war-- the dreaded Fomorians were invaders who came from an evil realm in the sea, raiding and pillaging for land and power.

This story was created and passed down in Ireland through oral tradition, as a way to explain the unknown origin of the Viking invaders. How else would an ancient population, unfamiliar with overseas travel, explain the arrival of a new race of people? Of sea-farers, speaking different languages and operating of their own accord? It was the role of fairy tales to help fill in these gaps-- to explain why wars began, how they ended, how magic came and went, and where the fairies live today.

These fantastical stories were created out of both societal necessity and for entertainment. It’s not hard to see that those elements have carried into the fantasy genre today, and it’s part of what makes separating fantasy from non-fiction so difficult.

I’ve struggled with this kind of unintentional real-world relation in my own writing. In a fantasy novel I’m working on, I recently removed some details about my main character’s body. She is associated heavily with snow magic, so I originally wrote her as having white hair, pale eyes, and pale skin (a la the White Witch from Narnia, Elsa from Frozen, etc.). I submitted a chapter for my fiction workshop class and was shocked by the feedback I got. In no world was my image of this character meant to hierarchize or segregate her from the other characters in this world, but it still struck my readers that way.

I eventually realized it wasn’t about my intention.

Regardless of any author’s intention when writing a novel, once they have released it into the hands of their readers, it takes on new meaning. As actor Cillian Murphy says, “I don’t think the film is finished until the audience sees it.” New eyes and fresh perspectives shape a story, even after it is technically “complete”.

Fantasy is not a portal-- it is a million mirrors, in which the reflection of each reader is slightly different. It reveals how the story functions in relation to both itself and to the truths of the real world. Fantasy then acts, miraculously, both as a form of escapism and self-discovery. That is part of what makes it so alluring to readers like me.