Since I was a teenager, I’ve had what doctors call a benign familial tremor. My hands shake, sometimes violently. As I’ve gotten older, it’s become more pronounced. It doesn’t really affect my overall health. I’m not dying, at least not any more than the rest of us are. But it has changed my relationship with magic in a very real way.

Because of the shaking, it’s hard for me to hold objects, much less perform intricate sleight of hand. The number of secret methods I can personally execute is small. If I focused only on the techniques my hands allow, my world as a magic creator would be painfully narrow. I might as well shelve my interest in the art form altogether.

So I don’t start there. I start with the miracle; what magicians call the effect; what the audience sees, hears, and experiences. That choice opens things up. It gives me a far larger universe to work in, instead of one that’s reductive and endlessly familiar. Only after I know the miracle do I concern myself with how it might be done; what magicians call the method.

On one level, I know this is just a story about magic tricks and tremors. Things not everyone finds especially important. But for me, it points to something broader. I need to keep creating, whether that’s writing, magic, or jokes, regardless of whether anyone is asking for them or rewarding them. Making things, for me, is not optional. It’s maintenance.

I’m not a religious man, but there’s a line from the Gospel of Thomas I’ve always found hard to ignore: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

Not bringing forth what you’re meant to bring forth has consequences. I’ve felt them.