Truthfully, I wanted to blow something up, metaphorically speaking. I wanted a big, magical explosion, and then I wanted to see what my characters did with it. I could have chosen any location, but I picked one with the power to transport you anywhere: from the depths of the sea to the far reaches of space, and everywhere in between: a library.
Okay, so a magical library where the possibilities for great adventures are increased a million-fold. But rather than destroying it, I wanted to trap people. People I care about. People I enjoy writing into existence. But I wanted to write them out of existence and send them NOWHERE.
That’s how Shattered Magic began. It was my opening scene from day one: a library. A catastrophe. Chaos. And poof! my trapped characters were lost.
And then… I was equally lost. The book stopped cold. It simmered in the back of my brain for months. I tried to dissuade myself, tried to pick a new opener, but it didn’t feel right. I loved it, my folded library too much to give up. So I let the story sit, as I usually do. And the answer to my literary dilemma came from a WhyFiles YouTube video on liminal spaces.
And we were off.
I didn’t invent the concept, but when I discovered it, it was like the universe was smacking me over the head, begging me to use it. So I did a deep dive into liminal spaces – airports, train stations, doorways, even elevators – and discovered that between here and there lies a place that’s both and neither. A place where you’re waiting to move on. Where possibilities are everywhere. These spaces aren’t meant to be inhabited long-term; they’re transitional, designed for waiting until you move on to your next destination.
There’s a long history of lore about liminal spaces, too. In ancient times, people buried small protective figures beneath doorways to keep evil spirits from slipping through, because they believed all liminal spaces had the potential to let anything through, and it’s better to guard against trouble than try to get rid of it.
And yes, there’s a disorienting feeling to being in one of these places for too long. Time seems suspended because, rather than being present where you are, you’re anticipating moving on. Think of a snowed-in airport – nobody’s supposed to be sleeping on the floor, and I’m pretty sure nobody gets quality rest when they have to do that – but all of those people are trapped between where they came from and where they’re going. And airports, train stations, and other liminal spaces aren’t designed for long-term occupation.
Psychologists describe liminal spaces as places of transformation, uncertainty, and possibility. Perfect for fantasy, right? So that library explosion turned into a journey through liminal spaces that forced my characters to grow. By trapping them in a place that’s neither here nor there, I could explore who they are when the world goes sideways. Chaos became possibility, fear became personal, and a simple “what/when” question – what happens to people when they’re trapped nowhere for too long? – turned into a story about choices, courage, and the quirks of the people I love to put on the page.
Here’s another honest fact that didn’t occur to me until I was writing this post: I was in my own liminal space while I finished that book. Caught between the career I left and the one I was starting. Sometimes, the in-between is exactly where you want to be, and sometimes serendipity sneaks up on you.
R. Leonia Shea 