The Forbidden Kingdom and the First Reader

The ups and downs of trying to make the game lasted a little over a year. After the clear failure with Mr. X, I was referred to another company — one already known for a few successful gaming projects. They even had an American investor, a Bulgarian émigré from the post-war generation, who showed up in Sofia, where we solemnly signed a letter of intent. As far as I remember, the new “master,” a young and perpetually grumpy guy named Veselin, said something like: the only thing that really caught my interest here is the script. A light brush to my bruised ego — but enough to launch me into another round of funding, expertise, and, in the end… nothing.

What followed was yet another great defeat in my life.

Since I had swallowed the rejection of my dream, everything had gone according to plan. For ten straight years, I had lived with the untroubled confidence of a typical Bulgarian everyman — the kind who, even if locked in a cupboard, will still find a way to open a shop. I had arrived in a foreign country and adapted quickly. Without wasting time on formal retraining, I had managed to make myself an expert in a complex and refined field: book design and production. I had built a solid family, founded a business, and lived the quiet, steady life of the German middle class. No detours. No fine print. And suddenly — this.

I felt cheated. Played. Outwitted.
I wanted to punch the wall.

But as the wise man from Sils-Maria teaches us: defeats have their uses. If they don’t kill us, they make us stronger. And this, I think, is true not just because Nietzsche said it. Very soon, standing before the choice of either shrinking and withering — like we say in Bulgaria, a peed-on geranium, or breaking my “sacred vow,” I timidly began typing again.

And that’s when things started getting truly wild.

I had expected anything else — but not what happened next. I don’t want to wax too philosophical about the mysteries of life, but in creative work, things unfold very much like in love: either it happens at once, like magic, without effort or tension, or you struggle, struggle, struggle… and eventually give up. Or worse still: it suddenly “works out,” but in such a way that the rest of your life becomes a sad song of dead ends. God save us from “success” that comes from tortured efforts — in love or in creativity. One will slap you; the other will knock your teeth out.

What I mean is, this time the story didn’t just flow like oil. It flowed like magic.
One wonderful surprise after another, in an unstoppable rush.

The first miracle: the names of the characters. Believe me, there is nothing easy about coming up with names like these. If they don’t arrive on their own, there’s no point trying — most likely, it won’t be the story you’re meant to tell. But here, not only did vivid names appear — they were downright inexplicable. And yet they fit their characters like the proverbial hand in a glove. Take, for instance, the prima donna Justa Diva. Or better yet, the wizard Nerod Laptsev — the shadowy figure who opens and closes the story in all three books, and about whom we never learn much… except that he seems very powerful and all-knowing, until it turns out his spells are about as useful as a frog’s horseshoes.

And that’s not because I planned it that way. It’s because the Ghost Forest is not a place where problems get solved with magic wands and whispered incantations. Here, you need solid intellectual work, my friend. And woe to anyone who lacks the wit and inventiveness of the Anne–Pouchy team (plus friends). There is no greater magic in this world than human wit. That’s the hidden — or not-so-hidden — message of the Ghost Forest. And if you didn’t catch it while reading the books, well… here it is now. From me. It took me many years to understand that simple truth.

Meanwhile, I was gaining confidence. At first, I was scared stiff. Was this a joke? I was stepping into the most forbidden of all forbidden zones — the place where I had once failed spectacularly, where I had lit a sacrificial bonfire and made a solemn vow never to return. No doubt, my heart was pounding in my throat — and if it hadn’t been for the defeat pushing me from behind, with a force far greater than fear, I would never have dared to enter that forbidden kingdom.

But the higher powers — they know their game.

I started sending little excerpts to friends with kids. “Hi, please read this to your kids. Tell me what they think.” And the responses came back, rather fast: “It’s readable. Keep going.” That was more than I expected.

In the summer of 2000, while visiting Bulgaria, I dared to approach the publishing house PAN, one dedicated to children’s literature (found them online). I was welcomed by Lyubomir Rusanov — a man for whom I still have the deepest respect. Not only for his kindness and calm demeanor, but because I truly believe he’s one of the most capable publishers and readers in Bulgaria. He’s someone who can assess the quality of a manuscript with just a few fleeting glances.

And I say that not only because he was the one who made me believe in my mission. But also because, after more than fifteen years of reading all sorts of texts, I believe I’ve developed the same skill. Oscar Wilde once said: you don’t have to drink the whole barrel to know what kind of wine is inside. True — but only someone with a trained palate can tell you exactly what kind and how expensive. Lyubo Rusanov can do that. Or so I believe.

We exchanged a few careful words, weighed each other silently, and parted on good terms. At that time, I only had about a third of the manuscript and wasn’t entirely sure how the story would end. I was still working mostly from the illustrations left over from the doomed game project. Lyubo looked at them, listened to my brief summary of the story, and told me to send him the manuscript when it was ready.

I finished the book in late autumn, 2000. I only tidied it up a little. Because my writing process is simple: whatever comes out the first time — that’s it. I don’t edit much. I don’t polish. Either it works right away, or I throw it out. That’s my whole craft.

So I sent the manuscript to Lyubo. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited some more.

No word from Sofia. One week. Two. Three. A month. Nothing. My Bulgarian soul started to boil. I was swearing up and down the walls, and finally I picked up the phone, ready to fight.

And on the other end — Lyubo, calm and kind as God himself, said: “Mr. Enev, this is the best thing ever written in Bulgarian for children.”

My jaw dropped. I just stood there, completely dumbstruck.
And I couldn’t say a word.