Tag Archives: word witch

The Alchemy of Estrangement: How being estranged from my family of origin informs my fiction

Posted on by
Reply
Photo by Los Muertos Crew—Pexels

First things first: I’m not looking for condolences, “I’m sorrys,” or advice about forgiveness. I’ve done all that. If you can’t resist, if unsolicited advice is your currency, know this: I keep boundaries like talismans. Cross them and the door closes.

Boundaries are what led to the estrangement. It didn’t happen all at once, but person by person. And while I thoroughly grieved each loss, I’ve made peace with them all.

My dad: We’ve been estranged since my youngest son was two. He’s now 35. When I tried to talk about my childhood, my dad shut me down: “You can write to me about what your kids are doing or about the house [my then husband and I were building a custom house], fine. But if it’s about any of this other stuff, don’t bother me.” He also told me he had “a new family now.” I took him at his word and wrote one last letter saying the door would always be open if he ever wanted an honest conversation. Thirty-three years later, it’s still open.

My mom: Our falling out was slower, with repeated “come back” attempts, always on her terms, always at my expense. Her well-disguised narcissism unraveled when I could no longer pretend. The final break came in 2017.

My younger brother: Our estrangement fell between the two. Ask him why, and he’ll tell you it’s because I’m crazy. That’s all.

So, why am I sharing this?

First, because I’m often asked when I do public readings: “Is this autobiographical?” (A bad question, in my opinion. I’ll say more about this in a future post.)

If I wanted to write my autobiography or memoir, that’s what I’d be doing. Writing fiction is a choice I’ve made for particular reasons. In short: fiction is a superior form of writing, in my opinion. (More on that, too, in a future post).

Another reason I’m airing my dysfunctional family estrangement is because:

  • being abandoned by them taught me resilience. It shaped me into a tenacious, self-contained, resourceful human who isn’t afraid of doing life alone. That has been pure gold.
  • it’s taught me that “Love conquers all” is only an adage. In my experience, shame and fear often outweigh love. (That doesn’t make me jaded. It makes me a realist.)
  • maybe most importantly, this is the soil where my fiction grows.

These experiences—loss, resilience, the complicated messiness of dysfunctional family dynamics—are the threads I weave into my fiction. Writing is where I transform the raw emotional material of my life into story, where pain becomes meaning, and where characters walk paths I recognize.

So, when people ask me, “Is this autobiographical?” about my work, the answer is always “no.” I don’t write about myself. I don’t need to anymore. Because I have the perspective… The distance needed to make meaning of human dramas and the human condition on a wider scale, to make my stories universal.

I let my characters have their own struggles, I walk beside them the way a parent does a child, and I serve as a guide on their path to meaning making about the human dramas readers identify with, which leads to recognition, validation, and connection.

And in the end, it leads to healing.

Hi, I’m Johnnie Mazzocco—Word Witch, Story Alchemist, Sage. I’m here to heal the world through stories, whether the ones I write and tell or the ones I help others write and tell.

Have you worked with a real word witch before? It’s time.

More to come about my family and how it has informed my fiction…

The Witchy Power of Story: Every story is a spell, and every reader is willingly enchanted

Posted on by
Photo by InstaWalli—Pexels

Fictional stories are portals. They draw readers across a threshold into other worlds, where characters lead them through human dramas and deliver far more than escapism.

In many ways, stories are magical incantations. An alchemy of the writer’s words and the reader’s lived experience. Jonathan Gottschall, in The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human, calls this the “weird and witchy power” of story.

The Witchy Power of Story

We are so immersed in stories that we forget how strange it is that mere words can alter our thoughts, emotions, even our bodies. Gottschall’s phrase—“weird and witchy power”—is an apt metaphor for the enchantment and danger of story: it seduces, reshapes, and ensnares.

Writers, in this sense, cast spells. They shift readers’ awareness and lived experience. Not with malice, but with magic. In my view, this spell is often medicinal, a way stories help us heal what life wounds.

The Irresistible Pull

Gottschall notes that “human minds yield helplessly to the suction of story” (p. 3). We can try to resist, but narrative captures our attention whether it arrives as gossip, a novel, or a binge-worthy show. Stories are alternate worlds we slip into, often without conscious choice.

I believe readers sense, maybe even unconsciously, that stories will soothe them, mending their minds, hearts, and souls.

Suspension of Disbelief

English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge coined the term “willing suspension of disbelief,” describing the tacit agreement between reader and writer. But Gottschall reminds us that will hardly enters into it.

Stories override our defenses. A simple phrase like “once upon a time”opens the door, and suddenly we are inside.

Storytelling as Spellcasting

Gottschall likens the storyteller to a sorcerer casting an incantation. If the spell is strong, resistance is nearly impossible; the only escape is to close the book.

This elevates storytelling from craft to conjuring. Writers wield a powerful wand, entering the reader’s mind and imagination, shaping thoughts and even bodily responses.

Readers as Co-Creators

Reading may appear passive, but the brain is anything but idle. Language centers fire, sensorimotor regions light up as we vicariously experience actions, and the default mode network engages to simulate mental states and environments.

The writer provides the framework. The reader’s imagination supplies the color, texture, and emotion. Stories “work” because they are co-creations between teller and audience.

The Subtle Power of the Writer

The writer guides but cannot fully control what the reader imagines. The paradox of story—that witchy magic—is this: enough precision to bind the reader’s mind and imagination, enough openness to let them weave themselves into it.

A Closing Spell

If stories are spells, then writers are modern-day witches (Alan Moore called them shamans). With words, they seize attention and alter consciousness.

Recognizing this power makes us more intentional about the stories we create—and more reverent of their influence. Storytelling may feel “fun” at times, but it is also sacred work: the forging of unseen, ethereal connections between humans who may never meet.