Our house is near a park with hiking trails. During COVID, when my husband and I were both working from home with a toddler, those trails became sacred to me.
Toddlers have energy. Untamed toddler energy in a house where two adults are trying to work full-time jobs is a disaster. So my husband and I worked out a schedule: each of us would get dedicated work time and time with our son before his nap. During my morning shift, I’d take our then two-year-old for a walk through the woods.
Always the same trail. We memorized it. The mile markers. The bench where we stopped for a snack. The great stone wall where he would vroom the toy cars he’d brought along. The bridge. The bamboo forest. The creek where we’d hop across rocks, then throw leaves and twigs into the water and watch them float downstream. Then the big bridge.
We did this every day the weather permitted. The leaves turned beautiful autumn colors, then eventually fell. We bundled up and kept walking.
Sometimes he brought toys. Sometimes he dressed as a firefighter and fought pretend fires along the way. Sometimes he was a dragon, pretending to fly. There was both routine and novelty in every walk.
Spring returned, and with it came baby creatures. A baby fox almost ran into us one day. Snakes sunned themselves by the creek.
My second child was born during COVID. I strapped him to me, and we continued our walks. Those woods became familiar and warm. They felt like home.
When I started making up stories for my children, usually on the fly at bedtime, I noticed they all took place in a forest of some kind. It was easy to close my eyes and imagine a story in those woods.
So when I started thinking about my first middle grade fantasy novel, I knew where it would take place.
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