Grace Turney

The “Land of Stories” series by Chris Colfer was a common interest between me and my friend. It acted as inspiration for our own book.

The rain drummed against the roof.

I stared out the classroom window, mesmerized by the way it slammed against the glass. The sky was dark, the clouds swaddled in a blanket of gray. The occasional strike of lightning illuminated the gloominess.

A deep rumble of thunder prompted several screams from frightened third graders. I wasn’t scared, though.

I was instead disappointed. Saddened. Even heartbroken. Because while I loved the rain, I loved recess even more. If I had to pick between the two, recess would triumph everytime. No question.

Recess was when we were pirates protecting the playground-turned island, fairies roaming the magical kickball field, explorers discovering a treasure hidden under piles of mulch. We had the best time.

We, meaning me and my fellow pirate, fairy and explorer Casey.

My eyes drifted from the window to her seat towards the front of the classroom. I met her big brown eyes, which lacked their usual bright spark of excitement.

No recess today, she mouthed as she motioned to the rain.

I nodded solemnly. I know.

At least we have free time, she said with a small smile.

Yeah, I said with a shrug.

So once class ended, she pulled her chair over to my desk, and we started talking about our favorite book series at the time: “The Land of Stories.” We ranted about which characters we loved, who we hated, what magical powers we would want, which kingdom we would live in, how cool having a castle would be.

But after 10 minutes, the conversation fell short. So as it began to dwindle, Casey saved us from unwanted boredom.

“What would you write a book about?” she asked.

I pondered that question. As much as I read, the thought of actually writing the book had never entered my mind before. It did sound interesting. But also intimidating. What would I write about? I wasn’t sure.

Before I could think of something, Casey answered her own question. She listed everything she wanted in a book: magic, a villain, dragons, unicorns, ice cream, flowers, robots, planets.

“Mine would be a mystery,” I said. “In the ocean.” With Casey’s nod of encouragement, I added an octopus, wizards, treehouses, a princess, diamonds and a rocketship.

Casey opened her notebook and started furiously scribbling as I talked. Before we knew it, we had transformed our random assortment of things into a completely planned out story. It was to follow a girl who finds a magical set of keys, each unlocking a door that leads to a different world. The worlds were wondrous and whimsical, each with its own fantastical elements.

We spent all of recess discussing our questions about our book – the whats, whys and hows of everything we wanted to happen. It was only until we were forced to return to class when we stopped talking.

But our conversations continued like that into the next day.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

Until, two weeks later, we had finished writing the 13th and final chapter. We eagerly hole-punched every cream colored page and tied them together with ruby red string.

And when it rained again a few days later, we weren’t sad. We were excited.

Excited to escape into our imagination that wasn’t limited to the playground anymore.

Excited to spend an hour immersed in our own fantasy.

Excited for our next new idea.