Live in the Magic You Create
Letters from Kindlebrook, Vol. I
If you’re anything like me—and I’d like to think that many of you are, or else, why would you be here?—you’ve been heartbroken by a creator.
I’ve talked about this before, especially when the subject of loving art comes up. It’s the price of admission, isn’t it? When you love music, books, film—anything created by human hands—you risk being disappointed by the people behind it. Sometimes, the genius behind your favorite world turns out to be insufferable. Or worse, cruel.
For me—and for many of us—the wounds feel deepest when that person wasn’t just talented but transformative. When they spun whole galaxies from language, crafted magic from ink, and made us want to create too. When they made us believe in something bigger than ourselves.
And then, one day, you realize the pedestal was always too tall. That they built it themselves. That maybe, just maybe, they were never worthy of the stories they told.
So what do we do with that?
Should we abandon the magic? Pretend it never existed?
Short answer? Absolutely not.
Because the stories, the songs, the worlds—they stopped belonging to their creators the moment they moved into ours. Not in a legal sense, but in the sense that matters: the emotional imprint. The way they stitched themselves into our bones. The way they helped shape who we are.
That part? That’s yours.
It always was.
But the heartache is still there, isn’t it?
And it deserves to be felt.
The inspiration you found, the spark you felt—it came to you for a reason. And when it does, it’s time to live in the magic you create.
I’ve been doing that for over a year now. And today, I want to welcome you to the world I built from the pieces.
Welcome to Kindlebrook.
It’s a town tucked just beyond the veil, nestled where second chances grow like wildflowers and dragons nap in sunbeams. It’s the kind of place we used to dream about as kids—the one we never wanted to leave and keep trying to find again as adults.
Kindlebrook was created to replace the hollow I felt after I walked away from one particular fictional place. I missed it. I wanted to fill the void. I wanted to recapture the feeling I had reading The Last Unicorn, watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and disappearing into whimsical worlds that felt safer and more wondrous than our own—places like Narnia, Hobbiton, Andowyne, and the country of Florin.
(And just to be clear—none of those are the stories that broke my heart. In fact, they’re the ones that never fail to heal it.)
Kindlebrook is the patchwork world those stories helped me imagine. A place where misfits find purpose, where former villains grow tomatoes, and where the magic is earned—not bought, not inherited, not hoarded.
At the center of it is Lark Witwillow.
She’s stubborn and snarky, cautious and clever. A potion maker in hiding. A woman who once gave up everything to protect her village—even if it meant serving someone she never trusted. She’s also the reluctant mother of a nosey, wide-eyed baby dragon with a destiny far too large for his wings. And maybe—if she absolutely must—she’s the one who might just save the day.
This is a story about survivors. About rebuilding after betrayal. About what happens when you’ve been pushed too far, when the people you love are on the line, and when you decide that found family and quiet resistance are more powerful than anyone’s crown.
And most of all, it’s about what comes after.
It’s about choosing softness again. Choosing joy. Choosing to stay in the fight—but on your terms.
So if you’ve ever felt betrayed by the creators who shaped you—if you’re tired, heart-bruised, or trying to remember why you ever believed in magic in the first place—this space is for you.
Each week, I’ll send you a little something from Kindlebrook.
A potion. A thought. A dispatch from Lark or one of her neighbors.
A reminder that joy is still here, still possible, still real.
Because the stories that broke your heart don’t get the final word.
You do.
And if you’re anything like me, you’re writing something better.
With warmth and quiet rebellion,
Tee (and Lark)
P.S. If this letter stirred something in you—drop a comment, share it with a friend, or hit subscribe. I’d love to know what stories shaped you, and what kind of magic you’re creating now. Let’s build something kinder, weirder, and wilder together.