Harry Potter Taught Me Magic Really Does Exist

I used to think Harry Potter was so dumb.

Because I can't be an adult and take responsibility for my failings, I blame my elementary school librarian. Try as she might, her description of this "great new book" just didn't sell me.

A young boy lives with his abusive aunt and uncle in England and then finds out he's a wizard. Then he goes to a school where he learns how to use his newly discovered magic powers.

Yawn.

I didn't want to read about some dorky-looking boy in England.

I certainly didn't want to read a story about going to school.

And what kind of name was Harry Potter?!

"You know what this cover needs? A kid morphing into an animal." --Ten-year-old me
Image credit: Wikipedia

I sneered over the top of my Goosebumps book at the kids in my class who pulled out Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone during silent reading time.

They wouldn't know good literature if it latched onto their faces.

Ha.
Image credit: Wikipedia

Luckily, I had the world's best fifth-grade teacher.

The best.

Before I could get too big-headed about my classmates' poor taste in books, she made the first Harry Potter novel assigned reading.

I groaned.

But I was hooked before the second chapter.

Harry and I grew up together. The release of every new installment in the series lined right up with my July birthday. Spending time with my best literary friend became a highlight of my summers.

I truly saw him as a friend.

He felt so real to me. His world, his friends, his teachers--when I escaped into those books, I jumped into another life.

Before I realized sharing spoilers made a person worse than Voldemort, I rehearsed entire plots to my ever-patient mother.

I gave her play-by-plays of Harry's Quidditch victories.

I reported the latest doings of Peeves the poltergeist.

I complained about Dolores Umbridge as if she were my own oppressive teacher and had given me detention.

I still shudder.
Image credit: Harry Potter Wiki

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released the day before my eighteenth birthday. After all the memories we made together, Harry and I were finally all grown up.

It hurt to say goodbye.

Love for Harry Potter sounds so cliché I rarely mention it when I am asked about my favorite books.

But that series made a difference in my life. It taught me so much about friendship, diversity, trust, the list goes on. I learned that even the best people aren't completely good--and that the worst people, too, can be redeemed.

I am a better person because I read Harry Potter.

Nine years have passed since I last held a brand new Harry Potter book. But earlier this month, when I picked up the latest Harry Potter story at my library, that familiar electricity returned.

Image credit: Pottermore

I don't know how long I held onto Harry Potter and the Cursed Child before I opened it. I drank in the anticipation, the magic that had occupied my birthdays through my teenage years and shone like starlight every summer.

I couldn't rush that moment.

My heart pounded like it would if I were actually meeting a dear friend I hadn't seen in ages.

That's a lot of pressure to put on a book. Expectations can be dangerous . . . and perhaps that's also why I couldn't bring myself to open it.

But I finally did.

And for a while there, I got to be a kid again. Got to catch the train at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, got to explore the sprawling Hogwarts grounds, got to ooh and ahh once more at magic spells--not just the kind that shoot from wands, but the kind, too, that shoot from writers' pens.

That's why I love reading.

That's why I love writing.

Because there is a real magic in this world: the way a letter joins others to create a word; the way a word, once read or spoken, births a thought; the way a thousand words inspire depths of feeling that, ironically, no words exist to illustrate.

J.K. Rowling is a great magician.

She is one of many.

And, if I keep practicing, perhaps someday I'll wield magic just as well as they do.

A Tribute to a Muddy River

Utah is a great place for creative minds.

Whether it's our high mountains in the east, our desert in the west, our red rock in the south, or our abundant forests, lakes, and streams, there's something here for every mood.

West Desert, 2008

Ever since I was a kid, my writing and the Utahn landscape have had a spiritual connection. My best ideas come wrapped in the stillness of a forest, the fire of a desert sunset, the whispered notes of mountain winds.

Henry's Fork Basin, 2007

You could say growing up in Utah is a reason I'm a writer.

And I have lots of favorite places here.

Some Salt Lake natives might not feel the way I do about it, but I especially love the Jordan River.

Like its namesake in Israel, Utah's Jordan River connects a large freshwater lake and a salty inland sea. It runs right up the middle of the Salt Lake Valley--and, conveniently, just beyond the fence of my apartment complex.

An urban park and trail system roughly forty miles long makes the Jordan River an ideal place to break away from city life even for just minutes at a time.

Jordan River, 2016

I fell in love with it in high school, thanks to brilliant teachers who knew how to turn the land into a classroom. The mile walk to get there from the school rewarded us with lessons much more real than a lecture.

A creative writing teacher used to take my class down to the river. He scattered us along the bank and for the rest of the class period we wrote poetry beneath the trees.

Since then I can't go to the river without taking inspiration home with me. It fuels my writing like the mountains do, and I'm glad I live so close.

Yet even though the Jordan River gives me words, I don't have words to write a worthy tribute to it. This little blog post is too short for what I really want to say.

But I still think about that river every time I say God dropped me into Utah so I could be a writer.

That Time I Drove My Car into a Wendy's

Fast food chic has taken my hometown by storm.

Almost every restaurant around here now has updated its look. Arby's, Burger King, and even KFC feel more like hip cafés than greasy fast food joints.

Nice try, KFC. I can see right through you!
Image credit: Obllique

I took my family out for lunch at a classy restaurant last week then realized we'd walked into McDonald's. That was embarrassing.

I'm not against the redesigns. I actually appreciate the new elegance of fast dining; at the very least, I don't feel gross now until after I've eaten.

But do you really need a table by a granite fireplace? You're eating Taco Bell.

Last year the local Wendy's jumped onto the bandwagon. They changed everything: swapped out cushy booths for minimalist tables, added flat screen TVs, replaced the outside bricks with windows. It looks nice.

Image credit: Business Insider

I picked up dinner there on my way home the other night. Amid the host of restaurant updates, thankfully the Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger remains its same delicious self. I couldn't wait to dig in as the takeout bag filled my car with its warm, inviting scent.

Eeeeeat meeeee.

But I couldn't keep away my sadness in the drive-through as I stopped to look at Wendy's' new glass walls.

Windows where red brick once stood. And on the brick--only in my memory now--a streak of paint.

My paint.

Years ago I drove a beat-up Mitsubishi without air conditioning or cup holders. We called it the Sly Pig car, because it bore my nickname on its license plate (immortalized here on the blog).

That car had some personality. I got into all sorts of trouble in that thing, and when it died it left this world in a glorious, raging fireball (but that's a story for another day).

I ate more fast food then than I do now. My daily afternoon commute typically involved a pickup window somewhere.

One day I chose Wendy's for my post-work freedom celebration. I'd had a rough shift at the warehouse where I shipped small kitchen appliance orders, and I approached the Wendy's drive-through thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

I had so much on my mind that I forgot I had no cup holders.

I ordered a large root beer.

I paid for my meal and proceeded with a giant cup clenched between my legs. But I didn't get far before the trade-off between my clutch foot and my gas foot tipped the drink onto its side. Reflex forced my eyes down to the root beer pooling in my seat.

Ahhh!

I grabbed the cup just as the car lurched over the curb.

AHHH!!

I jerked the steering wheel to the left--too far--and sent the car across the drive and past the other curb. With a thud and a crunch, the car wedged itself between a bush and the restaurant's outer wall.

Well, great.

My face went hot. The engine screamed as I shifted to reverse and tapped, then floored, the gas. The car didn't budge.

Seeing no escape unless she helped me out of my predicament, the person coming out of the drive-through behind me got out of her car and pushed with me. Two onlookers jumped in, too. But even the four of us together couldn't move my car.

Time to face the public.

By the time the door swung closed behind me in the Wendy's dining room, a crowd had gathered at the counter to complain. The drive-through hasn't moved in fifteen minutes! If they just had looked outside they'd understand.

Here went nothing.

I cleared my throat and shouted over the commotion, "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A TOW ROPE?"

Every eye in Wendy's fell on me. Then, as one, they looked outside and saw my car. I don't know how anyone could have missed the red sedan with its nose pushed practically against the window. But I won a little bit of sympathy.

A big guy in a cowboy hat approached me from his table. He looked the type I should be grateful didn't end up stuck behind my car in line. "I've got a tow rope," he said, pulling keys out of his pocket. With the power of his pickup truck and my first three volunteers assisting, we finally pulled my car away.

I thanked my rescuers then drove home and changed my pants. I didn't go near that Wendy's again for months.

Several years passed before I let my parents know what happened. By then the humiliation had worn off and I was happy to point out the streak of paint I left.

Every time I saw that mark I smiled. For years the Wendy's drive-through bore the symbol of my wild youth, whispering to all who passed that Nathan Cunningham was here.

A small piece of me died with the remodel. I still search for my old paint mark when I visit.

I'll have to be more careful now the walls are made of glass.

Desire Plus Danger Equals Drama: a Bedtime Story

The most compelling fiction follows Murphy's law: if anything can go wrong, it will.

One of my favorite parts of writing is the challenge to make my characters' lives worse with every chapter. Who wants to read a novel about the cheerful folks of Happy Town? 

Unless Happy Town is actually kind of creepy.
Image credit: Lindsay Koch

That's precisely why I'd never want to jump into the world of even my most beloved story. I'd likely die within a week.

Compared to characters like Mo LoBeau or Jimmy Kudo, I'm a total softy. While they're out there solving crimes and having drama, I max out on suspense just putting my kids to bed.   

In my defense, though, bedtime can get seriously intense. And, like any novel, it can also illustrate the useful "3D" writing technique: Desire plus Danger equals Drama.

For example:

After yesterday's Labor Day activities, my wife and kids and I got home in time to rush into pajamas and set alarm clocks extra early. My wife had a meeting to attend this morning, so we hoped everyone could fall asleep quickly.

Except the boys fell asleep in the car.

The frustrating thing about toddlers is that no matter how exhausted they may seem before they fall asleep, they get more energy back in a ten-minute nap than I get in an entire night. If you wake them up, it's all over.

So you can understand the threat this situation posed to our plan.

Image credit: James Valeii

Unfortunately the local bomb squad told us to stop calling them, so we had to extricate our sleeping children from the car ourselves.

My wife took the two-year-old. I took the one-year-old.

The car seat buckle clicked free. One strap over--don't catch those fingers--good. Next strap. Slide it off slowly . . . no, no, no, stop squirming! I'm not here! I'm not here!

Good.

At our front doorstep I fumbled in my pocket as the one-year-old crinkled his forehead against the cold breeze. Don't wake up. Don't wake up. 

My fingers trembled on the key ring then let go, sending the keys to the ground with a clatter. I stooped to pick them up again. The child flailed his arms.

Don't wake up. Don't wake up.

The boys remained asleep as we shed shoes inside the house and sneaked back toward their room. I lowered the little one into his crib and waited.

Waited.

Just when I thought we had succeeded and could finally retreat, the two-year-old whimpered.

He begged for a drink.

He demanded a story.

He insisted on brushing his teeth.

Then he screamed.

The one-year-old jerked awake. Red alert. Red alert. Red alert. I rubbed his back and did my best impression of sea waves. I sang. I bartered with the Universe.

But it was too late.

The boys didn't sleep again for hours.

Image credit: Bundoo

Of course, since I can't turn off my writing brain, I mentioned to my wife at some point during this ordeal that the tension there could go into a book. I thought specifically of the 3D formula: our desire to get to bed on time was endangered by the boys' transition from the car.

And that's all the drama I can handle right now, thank you very much.

I'm just glad I don't live in a book.