The Undead Fox of Deadwood Forest: A Guest Post by Aubrey Hartman

One fox. One badger. One hauntingly heartwarming adventure. When the balance between the living and the dead is in jeopardy, one fox must set things right.  Read on for an exclusive essay from Aubrey Hartman on writing The Undead Fox of Deadwood Forest.

Deadwood Forest came to me in a childhood dream. I know, I know, it manages to check the boxes of being both cliché and unbelievable. It is, however, the true origin story for The Undead Fox of Deadwood Forest. In this recurring dream, I am trying to find my way back to my grandparent’s house when I stumble upon a silent forest.

The last time I had the dream, I was a published author in want of a new story. I grabbed my laptop and began: “Clare was dead. But he was also very much alive.”

I have a theory that every artist gets one effortless creative exploit in their lifetime. One transcendent flash when plot and character flow like undammed water, as if the story was already in existence and we’re only discovering it.

Undead Fox was mine. Every story I’d written before (and every story after) was the sort of work we writers expect when we sit down to create worlds: plotting, replotting, wrestling with characters, scrapping whole scenes, doing the thrilling dance of waffling between loving and hating our job. But Fox? Pure ease.

It made no sense that it came at the time in my life when it did— I’d just had my third child, who came home from the NICU with a slew of medical issues. My life was unrecognizable. Nearly unbearable. A nurse came to the house twice a week to give me a few hours of reprieve. In those moments, I wrote.

But perhaps that was the magic of it. A writer has only their own soul from which to assemble the pieces of a story, and a soul has only as much depth and breadth as life experiences allow. The hard things become fertile ground for inspiration.

I had dreamt the setting. I had crafted the characters. And now, I had the beating heart: the quiet grief of change.

And what kid doesn’t understand that? Their entire existence has been a series of changes. No longer a baby. No longer a toddler. No longer a little kid. Moves and divorces and shifting peer groups. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: All the things that pain and worry adults, kids feel, too.

I have another theory: writing for kids is the best job in the world. Their sharp curiosity, their wide-open earnestness, the way they will love a good book with their whole heart. The impact a single story can have on a life. It makes no sense to me why one would write for anyone else (but I suppose grown-ups need books too, so props to you, adult authors). When I hear an adult loved my book, I’m flattered. But when I hear a kid loved my book? When a tender, tiny heart was filled, when laughs were out loud, maybe even a few tears of empathy shed? That’s soul food, right there.