There is a wee bit of magic found in some. It moves quietly, settling into them early, helping them shape certain groupings of words that reach into the deepest regions of the mind and carry us toward places not yet known. It is a gift—most genuine—and though knowledge becomes part of it, much of what is born arrives through blood, passed down through generations. Once it awakens, it presses against the ribs of its bearer, insistent, until it drives pen to paper and the heart is opened.
To others it may seem a novel approach, but to the one who carries it, it is simply an approach to a novel. They do not seek merely to anchor words for profit. What moves them is a driven nature, a kind of compelled addiction that requires an audience not to feed ego, but to complete the act. When they surrender to it, something living is made.
An object of quiet, immeasurable power is released—waiting to take hold of minds confined by the weight of daily living, offering them somewhere else to stand, if only for a moment. A place without pressure. A place of retreat. A passage that carries them along its own breath and motion.
And so the pen becomes more than an instrument. In the right hands, it is a wand set in motion—its magic not in spectacle, but in intention—casting its quiet spell with every line drawn, opening doors that were never locked, and carrying the reader away only long enough to bring them back changed.
© 2026 Steven Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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