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Evil vs. Hope

Several years ago, I participated in a book signing at a Hastings bookstore in some far corner of my state, and while I was waiting for the session to start I found myself chatting with a store janitor cleaning the aisles. When this man found out I was there to autograph copies of my latest fantasy novel, he mentioned the Harry Potter series. J. K. Rowling’s stories were then new and wildly popular, and this man was unsure about them. The popularity of the books worried him. He wasn’t sure about their themes of magic and sorcery. He was concerned about children reading the stories and how those stories might influence young minds to turn to the darker side of human nature. Most of all, he feared the villain he’d heard about.

My answer to him was as follows:  If you don’t write about evil in a story, how can you dramatize good overcoming it?

It made him think in a new direction. He went back to sweeping and I resumed signing books. My answer was a valid one because fiction needs a villain to test the hero and force the hero to change and/or grow; however, the janitor’s concerns should be taken seriously and not brushed aside. In the years since, they have stayed with me.

This morning I was reading an article called “Why We Need Utopian Fiction Now More Than Ever” by Eleanor Tremeer. It’s about the growing desirability for utopian themes to return to science fiction. As our real world careens through a climate of uncertainty and anarchy, it needs hope.

The author raises a good point; however, science fiction has a long history of reflecting the current times and whatever fears the population has. For example, the Cold War and its constant threat of nuclear attack generated numerous stories about mutant monsters such as Godzilla rampaging against a helpless population. Our current glut of dystopian settings mirrors concerns about climate change and societal unrest.

Even so, I confess that I’m ready for some optimism in my fiction. I find myself worrying about the present state of so-called children’s fiction where it seems that anything goes. Do middle-grade children need to read dark, edgy stories that feature violence and disturbing anti-social behavior? If I stand on my answer to the janitor, yes. Books need evil in them, providing it’s overcome.

But if it’s allowed to prevail, what are we doing?

As I pick up book after book in the kids section at my local bookstore, I find myself sharing that janitor’s concerns. In children’s fiction, we need to take care. I’m not recommending that we censor books unilaterally, but shouldn’t we be asking ourselves: What does this story have to say? How will this affect a child reader? Will this provoke a child to ask questions? Will this influence a child to be more sensitive to the feelings of others? Will this inspire a child to be braver, more honest, and emotionally receptive? Will this frighten a child? Will this teach a child that lying is okay? Will this desensitize a child? Or will this make a child think, so that in the future the child can make connections and understand bigger, more challenging themes or issues in part because of having read this book?

Such issues used to be called the responsibility of authors toward child readers. Publishers, librarians, and teachers were gate-keepers that steered young readers to stories they might be ready for and away from stories that were perhaps too intense or confusing for them at their particular age. It went hand-in-glove with broadcasting’s prime-time regulations for television content, stipulating that certain programs could not be aired until 9 p.m. when children were in bed. There was a general agreement that children were to be protected–not just by their parents, but by all adults. At the same time, middle-class American society permitted any adult to reprimand a child for improper behavior anywhere at any time.

Having grown up in that era, I enjoyed a childhood with a bubble around it. I was protected yet given considerable freedom to play and roam just about anywhere in my community. My mother knew that the elderly lady down the street would phone her if I was doing something I shouldn’t. And I knew that if I ran into trouble I couldn’t handle, I could seek help from an adult. The single warning criteria repeatedly stressed was never to get into a car with someone I didn’t know.

That is not our world today. It is not the world that children grow up in now. The bubble has been shattered. Chide a misbehaving child in public, and you run the risk of having her parent attack you like a ferocious she-wolf. Helicopter parents guard and hover over their children, who rarely set foot outdoors and seem managed constantly. Stranger Danger is the lesson kids are taught, and they are so shielded from adults that all grownups are perceived to be a) monsters or b) totally without authority or relevance.

I find it odd that despite so much parental protection, no one seems to be watching the content of children’s books. They are troubling due to their tone, the behavior of the characters, the rudeness and profanity that now sprinkle the pages, the inability of a child protagonist to stand alone, thus gaining self-reliance and independence, and–most alarming of all–their lack of conclusive endings where evil is met, confronted, and defeated.

When stories don’t dramatize the termination of villainy, they are themselves, in their cumulative effect, villainous.

Which brings me back to Tremeer’s point about our current need for hope in fiction. When you do not feature a true villain that can be confronted, outwitted, and defeated, you are serving defeatism.

You are writing a pessimistic story that leaves nowhere for readers to go. You are saying, this is a bad situation and it can’t be fixed. It will go on and on without end, without resolution. Just survive it as best you can.

That’s not the approach to fiction that I know or love or believe in. It’s not the approach to life that I want to have. It’s not what I want to see spoon-fed to children as entertainment.

Do you?

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Rules of Magic: IV

Willful Writer is back at his keyboard. Although frustrated by his writing teacher’s lack of appreciation for his efforts, he’s determined to succeed by writing the best fantasy story e-v-e-r.

He creates entirely new characters–a heroine, Fran Fantastica, and her magical pink cat, Angora. Fran Fantastica is a popular fan-dancer summoned to the palace to perform for the king. She is given a tour of the throne room, dining hall, and treasury. Each time Fran admires something she sees, Angora’s pink fur lights up with a puff of smoke.

“What’s that for?” Fran’s guide asks.

Fran shrugs. “Nothing. Angora enjoys doing that.”

Puff! goes Angora, sending pink smoke wafting through the air. Poof!

After dinner, Fran dances for the king and his magician adviser Warlo Wizard. Both men enjoy her act immensely. The king applauds enthusiastically. Warlo sets sparks sparkling from his magician’s robe and wand.

“Wow!” he says to the king. “When she dropped her fan, I sure wish her pink cat hadn’t puffed all that pink smoke.”

“Amazing timing,” the king agrees. “What a shame.”

“Most decidedly a shame,” Warlo says.

And although Warlo’s fallen deeply in love with Fran, despite being allergic to cats–pink ones being particularly conducive to sneezes–he finds that the king has moved more quickly by proposing to Fran and offering to make her his queen.

Poof! from Angora in delight. Puff! Puff!

“Oh!” says Fran in astonishment. “I do. I will. I’d love to.”

“Blast!” mutters Warlo and sets his beard on fire before stalking from the throne room in a very bad temper.

“So there,” Willful Writer announces while typing THE END. “I have written something that incorporates plenty of magic from start to finish, with a heart-filled love story as a bonus. If Ms. Sagacious doesn’t like this one, I’ll quit writing.”

“Willful, you should quit writing,” Ms. Sagacious says.

“But why?” Willful asks, forgetting his vow. “I included a lot of magic. Angora–ha, ha–is charming.”

Ms. Sagacious doesn’t laugh. “You included the cat’s magic to what purpose? What are its consequences?”

“Well, Fran’s going to become a beautiful queen. And Warlo will shave off his beard and pine from unrequited love.” Willful thumps his chest proudly. “But all that will happen in the sequel.”

“What about the magic?”

“I didn’t forget that magic should have a price. I’ll include that in the sequel, too.”

“No sequel!” Ms. Sagacious shouts, growing red in the face. “What are the consequences of it now?”

Willful, bewildered, ponders the question a moment before he looks up. “She drops a larger fan?”

I have a feeling that Ms. Sagacious is about to demonstrate the consequences of a bad answer to Willful right now. Let’s leave him to his doom.

Under this fourth rule, magic–if present–must affect the plot. It shouldn’t be only part of the backdrop. It shouldn’t be random, like Angora’s puffs of pink smoke. Its use needs to bring results–whether that’s what is intended or it’s disastrously unexpected.

In Disney’s animated film, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty’s fairy guardians are preparing for her birthday party. They disagree on what color her dress should be, and in the course of their squabble, they forget they aren’t supposed to use magic. They fall into a duel of blue versus pink. Puffs of colored magical smoke rise from the cottage chimney and betray Beauty’s location to the evil fairy Maleficent. Thus, their use of magic has consequences–dangerous ones–to the story.

When writing about magic, the consequences or results may link to the price the user will pay or they may not. But they must connect to the plot by affecting what happens next.

Without that direct connection, magic is simply a prop that will fail to achieve its full dramatic potential and lose what makes it special.

 

 

 

 

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Magic: Part II

Willful Writer is back at his keyboard, typing busily on his latest story. This one is about a young, brainy lad raised as a peasant, but really of noble blood. He has just been apprenticed to Yon Wizard, a fearsome enigmatic figure in a long, tattered robe and even longer beard that he tosses casually over one shoulder to keep from dipping it into his cauldron. After some haggling, the terms of apprenticeship are agreed and the lad is left with his new master. Yon begins his lessons promptly, and the lad proves adept at conjuring, summoning, and magical sweeping. Yon’s hut floor has never before been so clean.

One day, while Yon is away on mysterious wizard business, the lad finds a quaking, frightened townsman on the doorstep. The townsman says a giant is attacking the town walls, and Yon must come immediately to drive the giant away before the town is destroyed. When the lad explains that Yon is away on mysterious wizard business, the townsman becomes angry and says that Yon has a contract and must offer wizardly protection or he’ll lose his lease.

The lad, being a helpful type and fond of his master, agrees to fight the giant. Standing atop the ramparts, the lad lifts his arms and summons a mighty storm cloud with lightning that sizzles blue fire-bolts all around the giant, catching his tunic on fire. The lad conjures a fierce wind that blows the giant off his feet and tumbles him back from the gates. The lad closes his eyes and draws more deeply on magic than he ever has before. Then he creates an enormous broom with a giant redwood log for a handle and roof thatching for the straws. And with a mighty heave of effort, he sweeps the giant away.

“Hurrah!” cry the townsfolk. “Huzzah! Hoo-yah! We’re saved.”

They surround the lad, slapping his shoulders and asking him what he wants as his reward.

The lad smiles happily, glad to have been of service. “I’d like a beer please,” he says.

“Now there is some good writing,” Willful declares. Typing THE END, he takes his latest manuscript to his writing coach, Ms. Sagacious. She reads it, muttering to herself as she turns every page.

“Awful!” she shouts. “It’s too easy. I hate it.”

Willful, still enamored of his story, dares protest. “Would you like it better if I included Orville the talking cat?”

“No!” Ms. Sagacious tosses his story into the wastebasket. “You’re missing the point. The magic is free, and that’s wrong. You’ve cheated again. Now go away.”

Poor Willful. He’s brought trouble into his story and eliminated the protagonist’s mentor at the crisis point because wizards always seem to vanish just when they’re most wanted. He’s given his protagonist powerful magic and stuck with the magical rules he created by making sure the lad uses a broom to defeat the giant. Why, why, why is Ms. Sagacious so upset with him this time? What’s wrong with free magic anyway?

Do you know, dearest blog reader? Can you guess?

Willful has not put any price on this story’s magic. It’s easy to learn and do, so easy in fact that it’s effortless. The lad does not struggle to master it, does not encounter any difficulties in using it, and suffers nothing in its application. To Willful’s way of thinking, why shouldn’t his protagonist get a break? This nice, heroic lad surely deserves an “easy button,” right?

Wrong!

When a story problem is solved too simply, suspense as to the outcome drops. If the lad never struggles or doubts, there’s nothing for readers to worry about. The story goes flat because a successful ending is too certain.

And magical powers–be they small or great–offer easy ways to success. Magical powers are natural suspense killers … unless a writer tinkers with them.

We do this by putting a steep price on the magic. If a story is to carry any dramatic oomph, then magic comes at a cost. That subsequently serves to counter-balance the effect and keep suspense high.

In The Anubis Gates by Tim Powers, the evil magician is dying by slow degrees every time he uses his powers. He suffers nosebleeds after he works spells and grows weaker page by page. His plan is to create a new body for himself and transfer into it before he dies, and he is working against that deadline.

In Robert Jordan’s fantasy world, the male wizards eventually go insane from using magic.

Harry Potter pays the price of having to put himself into danger and face Voldemort, a villain so feared that no one else in the stories will dare speak his name aloud.

What price does Tolkien extract from his hero for wearing The Ring? Poor little hobbit.

In the Disney animated film, The Little Mermaid, Ariel wants to be human so desperately she gives away her lovely voice in exchange for Ursula’s spell.

Horrible or mild, drastic or simple, magic must come at a cost if it’s to be dramatic, effective, and suspenseful. Avoid becoming so caught by your own enchantment that you break this second, very important rule of writing about the fantastical.

 

 

 

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The Rules of Magic: I

Once upon a time there lived a person named Willful Writer who wanted to create a story world filled with wizards, apparitions, a noble hero, and a talking cat named Orville.

Willful Writer began his story with an exciting event designed to kick off episodes of danger and calamity. A magical hurricane blew down the castle, releasing noble hero from his chains where he’d been kept in the dungeon for five-hundred years. Noble hero fled, heading through the ghastly ghost field and the haunted forest and the river of misbegotten souls before he joined forces with Orville. Together, these two intrepid adventurers finally made their way to the wizard’s gate, through which they had to pass in order to reach noble hero’s home.

But at the gate crouched a dangerous sphinx armed with riddles and traps and trickery. While Orville was trying to solve the riddle to keep the sphinx from eating their heads, the wizard arrived to blast them to cinders. But at that moment, noble hero discovered miraculously that he possessed magical powers that he’d never known about before. He was able to toss wizard fire back at the villain, then blast the sphinx to rubble so he and Orville could make it safely home.

Wow! thought Willful Writer while typing, “The End.” That’s the best thing I’ve ever written.

Happily Willful Writer took his manuscript to his writing teacher, Ms. Sagacious. She read it, grimaced, and tossed the pages at Willful’s head.

“Never, ever, do this!” she shouted. “Never cheat with magic!”

Okay, this fable stops here. I’m as exasperated with Willful as Ms. Sagacious. Aren’t you?

Now we can all see that Willful has made numerous writing mistakes with his story, including using every cliche and threadbare trope known to fantasy, but let’s stay focused on what Ms. Sagacious said to him. What did he do wrong with his magic? He cheated. He violated the first of four common rules of writing fantasy magic.

And what, exactly, are those four common rules of writing magic plausibly?

#1–Don’t cheat.

#2–Pay a price.

#3–Limit the magic.

#4–Reap the consequences.

Okay, we’ve established that Willful cheated. We’ve jumped up and down about it. But how did he? What did he do or not do? Why was Ms. Sagacious so upset?

Answer:  Willful did not stick to his own parameters. In other words, when writing a fantasy story you can establish any type of magic system you want, and you can award magical powers to any character or characters you wish. You can make magic an ordinary and mundane fact of life or you can write that magic is special, rare, and hard to possess. It’s up to you and the type of story you’re writing.

But whatever you create in terms of where the magic comes from, or how magic is used, or who possesses magic, or what the magic can do–you must thereafter abide by your rules.

That means you can’t suddenly award special powers to a character that never had them before just to get that character out of a tight spot.

That’s how Willful cheated in the above example. And readers won’t accept it.

If, let’s say, you set up the parameter that using magic requires a blood sacrifice from a firstborn human, then halfway through your story you can’t switch that requirement to any other birth order just because your firstborn protagonist is the last man standing.

If you establish that only human blood will appease the Lizard God Othal, then you can’t have the high priest shrug and capriciously allow his minions to toss a goat on the altar instead.

If your wizard protagonist uses rituals to cast spells, and several times you’ve described a painstaking procedure of gathering the correct herbs by the light of a new moon, boiling the knees of eels for three days, and lighting seven spell candles in proper order while chanting an incantation, you can’t–at the climax–dispense with that procedure simply because the trolls are coming fast up the staircase and there isn’t time to follow the ritual.

These examples are illustrations of what we call writing yourself into a corner.

When and if this happens to you, it means you didn’t plan well when you were outlining your story. Or just possibly you didn’t bother with outlining at all.

Does this mean you’re doomed?

Hardly!

When you can’t figure any way for your hero to escape annihilation except through breaking the magic rules of your story world, the solution is simple. Revise your story! Alter your magic system to allow flexibility in how the magic is used, OR plant for the possibility of hero doing the ritual in a new, very risky way that might possibly succeed although it hasn’t been tried in a thousand years and could result in his dying of spontaneous combustion. Before you choose a solution option, however, think long and hard about how you would react as a reader to each one. Which could you accept, if you were reading this story? Which would annoy you? Then make your changes from that perspective.

I’ll address Rule #2 in my next post.

 

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Building Urban Fantasy–Part II

 

Supernatural Population

A necessary element for urban fantasy is its supernatural population. Certainly the villain is going to be supernatural, but there can be other enemies or allies to the protagonist from the magical or immortal creatures as well. And diversity of supernatural entities adds extra layers to your story.

M.H. Borosin’s novel, THE GIRL WITH GHOST EYES, features a San Francisco Chinatown that’s riddled with demons, ghosts, grotesque creatures, witches, sorcerers, and shapeshifting tigers.

Daniel Jose Older’s book, HALF-RESURRECTION BLUES, is set in New York City’s Puerto Rico district with ghosts and resurrected dead people walking the streets at night.

In JACK THE GIANT KILLER by Charles de Lint, modern-day Canada is populated by leprechauns and boggarts, to name just a few.

Beyond sprinkling supernatural characters into the story world, and beyond the goals of individual characters in primary and secondary roles, how will various supernatural types interact with each other? With humans? What are their societies? What are their customs? What are their special powers? How do they live? What do they wear? Where does their money come from? How are they governed?

Which leads us into the next point of consideration:

 

Politics

So how, exactly, are your supernatural beings organized? Do your were-leopards get along fine with with the vampires? Or are they at war? Or do they maintain territories and an uneasy peace?

Who rules the vampire hive? How many vampire hives, for that matter, are in the city of your choice? Or in the country? Do all vampires get along with each other? That seems unlikely, given that predators generally have trouble in that department. So who controls them? What are the consequences if a vampire breaks the rules?

Is there a fairy queen presiding over a court? What are her laws? Who are her enemies? Her allies? How does she govern the fae? How does she enforce her will over them?

Do all the wizards belong to a union? I can’t see Gandalf joining, but then he’s not a character in an urban story. But with the modern-day settings of urban fantasy, how can wizards fit in and operate within present-day America?

Butcher’s Harry Dresden character advertises in the phone book. He tries to obey human laws as much as practical. He also lives under the strictures of the White Council. And his ethics of confidentiality toward his clients can clash with the demands of the human police department.

Kim Harrison’s Cleveland is divided between the part of the city where humans live and work and the part of the city where the supernaturals are supposed to stay.

If you want to write about vampires, is vampirism legalized? Do vampires have rights of citizenship? Are they allowed to vote? And since they naturally tend to prey on humans, what laws govern that?

Maybe in your world, all supernatural creatures live in US cities illegally, in violation of immigration laws, and have no citizen rights at all. Does Immigration hunt and deport them?

Rules of Magic

Rule #1:  magic comes at a price. It should never be free because then magic makes getting out of difficult plot problems too easy. Story tension dissipates, and your plot will collapse.

Harry Potter can practice magic at Hogwarts, but he is forbidden to use his powers when he’s not at school.

In Robert Jordan’s WHEEL OF TIME series, the male wizards eventually go insane. How’s that for a future?

Rule #2:  magic must be limited. This is for the same reasons as stated in Rule #1. Unlimited use of magic destroys story tension because there can be no uncertainty as to the story’s outcome.

A sure thing kills fiction.

Rule #3:  obey the rules you establish. It’s fun to set up a system of magic at first, but then in the story’s climax when your protagonist is cornered and desperate you may feel tempted to cheat a little and let the protagonist use magic in violation of the rules just this once.

BOO! HISS! CHEAT, CHEAT, CHEAT!

Never fudge your rules to save your plot. That is the completely wrong thing to do.

Instead, you have a couple of options:

*You can rewrite your rules from the story’s beginning and give your hero an escape hatch.

Or

*You can force your protagonist to pay the price that magic requires.

The second choice is terrible and difficult. It may upset you. Certainly it will be tough on your character. But it will leave you with a stronger, more complex story. Isn’t that a good thing?

Rule #4:  magic and its use should have consequences and repercussions. Maybe this should be discussed under Rule #1, but the point here is that magic shouldn’t be thrown casually into a story without consideration of how it will affect the plot’s unfolding, the characters involved, and even everyday life.

I’m thinking of the old television show BEWITCHED, where the beautiful witch Samantha promised her human husband that she would not use magic in their home. So these sit-com plots would revolve around some domestic crisis, where she would wrestle with trying to use a human solution for a while and then she might wriggle her nose and use magic to solve it instead. Samantha always meant well and tried to honor her promise, but audiences were aware of her inner struggle and determination to go against her natural proclivities. However, it’s like leaving a dish of raw hamburger out on your kitchen counter and expecting the cat to ignore it when no one’s at home.

In the classic film comedy, I MARRIED A WITCH (starring Frederic March and Veronica Lake), the witch Jennifer is much less ethical. But her evil plan backfires and she becomes the victim of her own potion.

In the next post, I’ll continue with plotting.

 

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New Book!

The wait seems to have been interminable, but yesterday saw the publication of my latest book, THE CALL OF EIRIAN.

Book design by Alex Ferrari. THE CALL OF EIRIAN (c) 2012 is published by Amazon Children’s Publishing.

This YA book is the second of THE FAELIN CHRONICLES trilogy, coming out under the pen name C. Aubrey Hall. I’ve always found the middle books of trilogies to be challenging to write. Similar, in fact, to the soggy center of any story where it is so easy for the tale to falter, sag, slow down, or just sink.

However, I don’t believe THE CALL OF EIRIAN suffers from those maladies. My young characters–twins Diello and Cynthe (having been orphaned in the first book, CRYSTAL BONES)–are well on their difficult journey to the kingdom of the Fae. They’re in a race against Nature; winter is coming fast. They’re hindered by not being able to use their magical powers; using magic leaves a trail for the goblins to follow. And although they’re certain that if they can just reach the Fae their problems will be over, they find that the land of Embarthi is less than welcoming to Faelin such as themselves.

Politics, adventure, and magic are entwined in this book, as in most of my fantasies. I think fantasy is always a setting for a power struggle. Whether you’re in a cute Brian Jacques yarn about an evil Portuguese rat trying to conquer the gentle mice of Mossflower or a Robert Jordan epic, the political struggle is going to be there.

I have to admit, though, that quests are not my favorite plot structure. Unless it’s a l-o-n-g chase, the conflict can unravel into just one mishap after another. I prefer tightly focused antagonism. Quests also offer a challenge in that a writer has to keep topping each segment of adventure as the story builds to a climax.

And of course, being that it’s a middle book, the climax has to resolve the immediate problems of the characters without tying up the whole story.

Whew!

Despite the hard work, coming up with the magical elements of Embarthi was a great deal of fun. I looked forward to that just as I hope readers will look forward to reaching Queen Sheirae’s palace. Originally, I wanted to pay homage to some of the visual effects of the Jean Cocteau film, Beauty and the Beast, but that didn’t come across as I’d hoped and it was cut. Trying to think up the architecture for a race that can fly led to much pondering in my office chair.

The trogs are back. The goblins are back. We find out a bit more about the Samal wolves. But I confess that my favorite part of the book involves the lions of Embarthi.

Did I plan those big felines ahead of time? Nope. They just roared their way into the book and stayed there. I’m glad they did.

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World Building: Magic

Magic is to fantasy what hot fudge is to a sundae … sublime!

When building magic into a story world, determine the following:

Will your protagonist have magical powers?

Is magic common or unusual in your setting?

Is magic feared and despised or considered desirable?

How many and which characters will possess magical powers?

Who is the most powerful?

What is the source of the magic?

What are the limits to the magic?

What does the magic cost?

If you can answer these questions in terms of your story, then you’re well on your way to weaving magic intrinsically into the world and plot.  But let’s consider the last two questions in more detail.

Does magic carry a price?  I think it should.  At the very least it should bring a certain amount of responsibility for the character possessing extraordinary powers.  If she can do anything she wants, can turn her teachers into toads and conjure up limitless quantities of hot cocoa with real whipped cream without suffering any consequences, pretty soon we’re going to have an individual out of control.  Because power without restrictions leads to corruption, doesn’t it?

After the initial rush of delight, the fun fades pretty fast and suddenly we’re sated with hot cocoa.  So what else is there to get into?  Consider the SORCEROR’S APPRENTICE segment of Disney’s animated classic film, FANTASIA.  Mickey is lazy and wants to wield magic without putting in the necessary study and practice.  He conjures up a spell to animate a mop into doing his chores for him, but pretty soon the magic runs amok and Mickey lacks the skills necessary to stop disaster.

The best, most effective depictions of magic restrict it and set limits around its use.  And there need to be consequences to using magic.  That’s why the old fable restricts the genie in the bottle to granting only three wishes.  It’s the limitation on the magic in Aladdin’s lamp that creates the fascination with this very ancient story:  how will the wishes be used; how will they go wrong?

You can set any parameters around your story’s magic that you want, but once you do you’re required to abide by them.  This helps build natural suspense into the plot.  What if, of the three wishes, there’s only one left and now the protagonist must decide between saving her poisoned friend’s life or saving her own as the dark wizard tries to destroy her? See the dilemma?

Can you cheat through this, maybe fudge the magic a little so everything works out?  Absolutely not!  How can you enthrall readers if you cheat?  Set the limits, push the limits, shove your protagonist through an awful choice, and let her battle the consequences.  That keeps magic alive and vivid, woven through the very fabric of your story.

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