My grandma handed me a book with a big, red steam train on the cover. I was seven years old.
"I was at the book shop, and the bookkeeper recommended this one: Harry Potter. Apparently, it's very popular with the kids. It's a new author."
"Thanks, Nan!" I gave her a hug and waited for the appropriate time to remove myself from the table so I could explore the books' magical contents.
This book was like a portal to another world — a world far removed from the humdrum of my own. A world where up was down and down was up, and staircases re-arranged within the castle walls like life choices propelling you in different directions.
I wanted magic in my life. I wanted wonder! Excitement! I wanted to tumble down rabbit holes, and wander through mazes, and step into wardrobes with lions and witches. I wanted my existence to be the grandest story ever written — a fantastical adventure of discovery.
Could our world be magical, too? I wondered. Could there be more to it than meets the eye?
