Why I Write About Magic That Doesn’t Always Work
By Ellowen Moss
When I first began writing Moonmilk and Wildflowers, I imagined a world filled with soft spells, tea-brewed rituals, and ancient gardens that whispered back if you knew how to listen. I knew the story would have magic in it but I didn’t want the kind of magic that always obeys, always dazzles, always bends itself to the witch’s will.
I wanted magic that was… emotional. Fickle. Tied to the weather and the state of your heart.
Magic that, sometimes, doesn’t work.
Because we don’t always work.
I think a lot of us grew up with stories where magic was a fix. You find the spell, you say the words, and the world reshapes itself around you. And there’s comfort in that, of course. But what about the kind of magic that shows up only when you’re honest with yourself? What about the rituals that fall flat when you try to rush them, or the garden that stops blooming because you’ve stopped believing in your own gentleness?
That’s the kind of magic Mira faces in Moonmilk and Wildflowers. Not flashy. Not perfect. Just… real.
She lights her beeswax candles, ties her thread with trembling fingers, says the words from her aunt’s grimoire…and sometimes, nothing happens.
And that’s where the truth lives.
It’s not failure. It’s feedback.
In Mira’s world, spells don’t fail because she’s “not enough.” They falter because she’s not present. Because she’s afraid. Because she’s carrying too much or pretending she’s fine when she’s crumbling.
The Hollow—the magical cottage and land she inherits—isn’t just enchanted in the whimsical way. It’s emotionally intelligent. It listens. It waits for truth. It creates beauty when someone sees it with love. It breaks down when someone walks away from themselves.
And isn’t that what we all do?
Softness is power, but only when it’s sincere.
I think we’ve all had days where we light the candle, take the walk, write the poem, drink the tea… and still feel hollow. We try our rituals—whatever they may be—and sometimes, they don’t work.
But I believe there’s magic even in that.
Because when Mira’s ritual fizzles, she doesn’t fall apart. The spell doesn't work, the candle goes out, and even the tea she makes tastes flat—like the magic has gone quiet. But instead of giving up, she reaches for her best paper and her favourite green ink. She doesn’t write another incantation or try to force a fix. She writes a letter.
Not a spell. Not a solution. Just the truth—soft, human, and honest.
And somehow, the Hollow hears her.
Not with lightning or transformation, but with something quieter, more intimate, a small toad waiting at the windowsill, ready to carry her words into the night.
Sometimes, magic looks like a toad with attitude and bad weather. Sometimes, it’s a friend who forgives you before you’ve worked out how to say sorry properly. Sometimes, it’s the plants growing slowly, even after everything.
And sometimes, it’s just the courage to keep trying.
Magic that doesn’t always work gives us permission to be human.
It lets us fail without being failures.
It lets us return to the garden again and again, even when things look wilted.
It teaches us that intention matters. That presence matters. That healing, connection, and love aren’t quick fixes—they’re living rituals we keep showing up for, day after day, tea after tea.
And that, to me, is the most magical thing of all.