A SCHOOL FOR WIZARDS

(FROM CARD HOUSES TO HOGWARTS)

In case you’re wondering how it’s possible for me to suggest that creative writing takes longer than becoming a surgeon, you first need to understand that a primary prerequisite to writing is life experience: vast and varied, good and bad. I believe this because the greatest aspect of any fictional story—second only to entertainment, without which no one will care—is empathy. The ability to cause a reader to understand (and sympathize with) someone living a life very different from their own has the potential to make the world a slightly better place. For if people get into the habit of imagining what it’s like to be someone else, they may be less inclined to make poor assumptions about strangers. But developing the ability to create empathy takes time and requires knowing what it’s like to win and to lose; to succeed in the face of overwhelming odds, and to fail after giving all you have. It demands having suffered physical pain as well as emotional despair, and to know the bliss of overpowering joy. It requires all these things to properly develop true empathy for a wide range of people as well as the wisdom to know how to instill such notions in others without condescension or insult.  

From time to time I run into people who after finding out I’m a novelist, will express a statement such as, “I’ve been thinking of writing a book.” With all the casualty of, “I was thinking of going to the store later on.” To think you can write a book because you can read and write in your native language is like assuming that because you have constructed card houses as a child you’re qualified to design and build a skyscraper.

For the uninitiated, such naiveté can be overlooked. But for me, I went into this whole “writing gig” knowing that I needed to first build the tools, then start on the buildings. That’s why when I was in my twenties and thirties and writing every day, I knew my work was insufficient to publish. For how could I write a convincing scene about something I’d never experienced that so many of my readers likely had? But I didn’t stop. I used that time to learn the craft—all the little trade skills that were necessary to build the dreams that I hoped I would one day have a deep enough well to draw from: something I could be proud of. After fifty years of practice, I can confidently say I’m still learning. That’s because there’s so much more to writing a good novel than most anyone can imagine.

For me, writing was a process of trial, failure, learning from mistakes, and then starting again. My first published book was the fourteenth novel I had written, and none of the first twelve were good enough for publication, but each one taught me something: thatch really isn’t the best material for a roof; untreated wood in contact with the ground will rot; a foundation built on ground with  subsidence will fail. And, yes, I had many projects that didn’t even see completion because being a “pantser” wasn’t the right approach for me. But eventually, several decades later, I had acquired a toolbox filled with hammers, saws, chisels and all the other implements to start building what would become The Riyria Revelations. 

Given all the time and effort I went through, it’s not surprising that I couldn’t forget that fanfic story and the novice writer who penned it. I’d stumbled upon an architect armed with steel I-beams and concrete who had sat down to build their first card house and ended up with a respectable dwelling. What else was possible?

At the end of November of 2020, the world was in the grip of a pandemic and had been there for nine months. For most people, this was a terrible hardship. For many, it was terrifying. For me, it was paradise. I live in a remote cabin in a lush valley where I have created a little Shire-like existence for my wife and myself. The pandemic provided the perfect excuse to lock the door on the Sackville-Bagginses and leave me to my peaceful existence. Despite my hermit-like tendencies, there was my annoyingly overdeveloped and most inconvenient sense of empathy (see first paragraph for more information). My wife and I were fine—great even—but most weren’t. Being an old novelist living in the middle of nowhere, I didn’t see how I could help others, except to write, which is exactly what I would be doing anyway. Then I remembered that email from the previous February and an idea bloomed. 

I created Novel House, an online site where I could interact with aspiring writers. I envisioned it as a virtual Hogwarts where I would teach magic. I created a Foyer; Great Hall; a Library to house all the reference material I had amassed; a Study for homework assignments; Dormitories; a Conference Hall made up of multiple classrooms; an Inglenook for goofing off; a Conservatory to share music deemed best to write by; and a lounge I named the Dead Poet. Then I sent emails to three writers. One was self-published but struggling. The other two were amateurs who had impressed me in two ways. The first was they had submitted samples of their work that showed indications of potential. The second was passing the entrance exam. You see, Novel House has its own Sorting Hat system. It isn’t pleasant. It consists of my shredding a candidate’s best work—their heart and soul—and reducing it to ash before their very eyes. I’m not so much interested in the quality of their writing as I am at their reaction. I need to know if they can be taught. 

All three passed and began their first semester as freshmen at Novel House. Harry, Ron, and Hermione attended the first online virtual orientation where we got to know each other. Hermione was able to show off her books, which were impressive. Ron spoke of the one novel he had finished and of its many shortcomings that he hoped to improve on. And then there was shy little Harry, who had never written a novel and didn’t know there was such a thing as magic or a school for wizards. He was intimidated by the other’s knowledge and accomplishments because all he had ever accomplished was one fan fiction and a killer Yelp review.

Classes were held once a week, at the same time and on the same day. Students worked on their own novels, submitting opening scenes.  Their first hurdle was to produce an opening that would grant them access to move to the next level. Months went by. 

A new student joined the class. We’ll call him Neville. 

I provided random lectures, usually on common weaknesses I saw that were prevalent in the submissions. More months went by, and I resorted to providing assignments aimed at forcing the students to confront their shortcomings. More months slipped passed.

Eventually Ron and Harry nailed their openings and moved forward, and I soon caught wind of after-school meetings in which other students approached shy Harry for help with their homework. Harry supplied advice and critiques behind the scenes. The young wizard was learning more than how to write, he was gaining confidence, and with confidence came a more powerful voice. 

At the end of the first year, I asked each of my students to list what they had learned. This was as much a report card on me as a reflection on them. Both Ron and Hermione provided about ten bullet points. Harry submitted three full pages that covered everything I’d ever said—even things I’d forgotten about. The dissertation was so comprehensive that I had him post it in the Library for future students. 

Over the next three years, Novel House gained three more students. Two dropped out quickly, but the third remained. Let’s call her Ginny. Ginny was young and excited to be there, and she began to hear what a good wizard Harry was, but she’d never seen his work. Everyone else continued to have their writings posted and critiqued. But not Harry.

By that time, Harry was working on a special project for Dumbledore—a super-secret project that no one knew about. 

(Stay tuned.)