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Here is a thing I'm curious about: the collective magic a concept holds over an entire generation that can be lost to the next gen. For example, yesterday I went to the nature center I loved as a child. The old one was gone, replaced by a new structure. And the magic was gone.
The old nature center was wood, full of nooks and crannies and things to discover. There was an ancient taxidermy snapping turtle you could touch, ragged pelts, claws, teeth, dog-eared books, stones, and terrariums that held the newest rescue animals. It was ABSOLUTE MAGIC.
When I went there, it was never the same place twice. The old favorites remained, but there was always something new to discover. And the smell-- old wood, polish, green things, animal bedding, maybe a little swamp stank. It felt like Narnia. The new structure, though?
It's beautiful, don't get me wrong. Clean, well designed, with clear exhibits and good lighting. And it feels like... there's not enough stuff there? Like even though the space is bigger, it can only hold 1/3 of the objects-- and magic-- as the original Swamp Hut of Discovery.
And it made me think about the media and spaces that captured my imagination and obsessed me as a kid. I still LOVE that crammed, tumbledown, badly lit space full of musty things to discover. Used bookshops are like that. Even the junk lady from Labyrinth. I'm built to SEEK.
Another example: The general stores as described in the Little House on the Prairie books. I keenly felt Laura's wonder as she described the riches of penny candy and barrels, bolts of cloth, selecting a calling card. I loved the act of being there, touching, selecting.
I love putting places like this in my books-- markets, little stores that look like they're closed, closets full of mysterious boxes, hoards of stolen goods. I love the delicious act of choosing. And I wonder: Do today's kids obsess over that kind of space, too?
Because I feel like my kids... get kinda bored in those place. They like Amazon or Target, spaces that are big and clean, where everything is visible and flashy and bright. Maybe I haven't taken them to enough tumbledown shops, but I just worry the magic doesn't translate.
My children were able to wander the aisles of Toys R Us, but will we ever have those magical, giant toy stores again? There was no greater joy for me as a kid than $20 and a trip to Lionel Playworld. I call that trope The Big Flashy-- the godlike, glittering place that awes.
So I put these kinds of places into my books because they light up my heart, but I wonder what lights up today's kids. When I ask my progeny, they look at me like I'm nuts and can't answer. Maybe we don't know our Magic Junk House or Big Flashy until we're older and miss it.
If you'd asked me at 10, 'What lights you up inside?' I would've said horses. 'But you don't have a horse,' replied the imaginary adult. I AM WELL AWARE OF THAT, BUT I YEARN, I would've replied. Does the on-demand Netflix and Amazon world make kids yearn less? I worry.
There was a playground near the nature center, a sprawling thing of wood and chains and tires. Parts of it were so high or dangerous I couldn't climb them until I was tall enough. That place is gone now. The kids get one little structure, with dinky plastic slides. I grieve.
I wish we could still offer kids places that are dark and ensorcelling and messy, spaces that are slightly dangerous and leave their palms abraded and make them want to come back and try again. I wish they could fall on the sand & choose to try again. I hate sanitizing childhood.
I'm so glad we've made inroads to wellness. My childhood wasn't a good one, and I appreciate how parenting these days is more about understanding and honoring your kids rather than forcing them to submit. I just wish the spaces for play and discovery were still wild and dirty.
And-- hey. I spent most of my time from 3rd grade on as a latchkey kid who watched cable TV for most of my waking hours. It's not like I was some enchanted forest child. Nintendo became my god in 5th grade. But I remember those Sundays at the nature center and playground keenly.
All I can do is try to recreate the magic of these spaces in my books. Whether it's the mall scene in No Country for Old Gnomes or the hoarder haunted house in MINE, I want to give folks a way to feel that tingly fascination, that pull, that awe, even if it's just on the page.
