Why The Girl with the Secret Curse Is for Kids

—and Why Librarians, Teachers, and Parents Are Watching

"Everyone you meet is fighting a secret battle you know nothing about."

My stepfather told me that, though he got it from author Brad Meltzer, I'm sure. Still, it was long years after the hospital visits, the breathing treatments, the steroids, and the bedridden days were over. And I carry that quote in my back pocket anytime I need a reminder to be kind.

Inspired by my own imagination as a child, I started with a question.

I must be thinking hard -- or maybe I'm emotional. Probably a bit of both.

What if a magical school existed not to test children, but to keep them safe?

Not just safe from the outside or danger, but safe from things they don't understand about themselves, safe from being abandoned or left to their own devices when things get hard. What if it taught them to be kind, not just competitive. What if it encouraged them to combat injustice -- in the best ways. Could that be some place that was still full of mystery, adventure, and a little bit of cozy-spookiness.

Would Black Hollow, the magical school of my childhood fantasies, be a place kids might want to go?

I think so.

The Girl with the Secret Curse is a middle-grade fantasy set at a secluded Maine boarding school for cursed children. Some curses are obvious. Some are a little dangerous. Some don’t make sense yet. The school doesn’t exist to “fix” these kids. It exists to help them live as who they already are. That distinction is intentional, and it shapes every part of the story.

At the center of the series is twelve-year-old Sara Goode. Her parents are very visibly cursed. Sara arrives at Black Hollow afraid that her problem isn’t power — it’s absence. In a school where curses are categorized, color-coded, and carefully managed, Sara’s curse doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t behave. It doesn’t fit. The school's magical Loom can't even classify it, but it assures her that she definitely has one.

And at first, it looks like nothing more than coincidence.

Sara's coping skill is writing. And when journaling isn't quite enough, she write's stories. Small ones. Little things that comfort her. And pieces of them start to come true — not cleanly, not completely, but enough to be unsettling. Her magic doesn’t explode. It leaks. Quietly. Unreliably. Like a truth no one has language for yet.

That slow emergence is deliberate.

Black Hollow is written for middle-grade readers who love eerie atmospheres, secrets, and rules — but who also need stories that respect their emotional limits. The stakes are real. Things go wrong. Systems fail. Adults make mistakes. But the story never confuses fear with harm. When characters struggle emotionally, those moments are treated as signals for care, not punishment. When danger appears, it is met with community, accountability, and repair.

Midway through the story, Sara’s curse stops pretending to be subtle.

Under pressure, in public, and without permission, her magic fully manifests — transforming her into something undeniably wonderful and weird. Tentacled. Webbed. Powerful. Unmistakably not Soft. It’s a little scary, yes — but it’s also clarifying. The moment reframes everything that came before: the near-true stories, the misfires, the unease. Sara was never uncursed. Her magic simply refused to follow the expected script.

The school’s magic system is built to reflect this kind of emotional reality. At its heart is the Loom, an ancient device meant to regulate emotional surges before they become dangerous. It’s not a puzzle kids are asked to solve. It’s a structure that quietly acknowledges something they already know: feelings have power, and ignoring them can cause real damage. When the Loom begins to fail, the story doesn’t blame children for having big emotions. It asks a harder, more useful question: What happens when systems meant to protect kids are misused, misunderstood, or trusted too blindly?

In The Girl with the Secret Curse, curses are not punishments or moral lessons. They are facts of existence. Some arrive loudly. Some unfold slowly. Some don’t reveal their full shape until the worst (or best) possible moment. Difference is not something to overcome; it’s something to celebrate and live with — safely, honestly, and together.

As the series builds toward publication, Black Hollow is drawing attention not because it is louder, darker, or more shocking, but because it is careful. It offers mystery without cruelty, danger without despair, and transformation without shame. It understands that for many kids, the scariest part isn’t discovering you’re different — it’s discovering it in front of everyone.

For librarians, teachers, and parents quietly looking for stories that balance wonder with care, Black Hollow is meant to be a place to land. A fantasy that allows fear to exist without letting it take over. A story that remembers kids are still kids, even when their magic finally shows itself.

The doors aren’t open yet.But the lights are on.