One of the more interesting things about trying to find a literary agent has been discovering that publishing is not really about books. It is about problems.

For those who have been following my writing, this is not the neuroscience and customer service book that I recently announced has been contracted with Bloomsbury Academic. That project is well underway. This is a different book idea that I hope will come after that one, and one that I am hoping to pursue with literary representation.

As I have been researching the agenting process, I have come across the same advice over and over again: a nonfiction book proposal should answer a need, not simply present a topic. An agent does not want to know that you have written about neuroscience or folklore or creativity. They want to know what problem the reader has and why your book is the answer.

At first, I struggled with that.

My proposed book explores the neuroscience behind experiences that people often describe as magical. Why do we believe in signs? Why do rituals make us feel better? Why can a blessing bring comfort or a curse bring fear? Why do lucky charms, manifestation, and intuition seem to have such a hold on us?

Those are interesting topics, but “interesting” is not the same thing as necessary.

So I started asking myself what need this book would actually serve.

The answer surprised me.

I think many of us have been taught that we have to choose between two stories about the world. One story says that everything that feels magical is simply bias, faulty thinking, or superstition. The other says that we should accept supernatural explanations without question.

I suspect there are a lot of people who do not feel entirely at home in either camp.

Perhaps they have experienced a coincidence they cannot explain. Perhaps they carry a family tradition that has been passed down for generations. Perhaps they have felt the comfort of a ritual, the weight of a blessing, or the uneasy feeling that something was wrong before the phone rang.

They do not necessarily want to be told they are irrational.

They also do not want to give up critical thinking.

The older I get, the more I think one of the hardest lessons to learn is that two things can be true at once.

A lucky charm can just be an object.

A lucky charm can also change a person’s confidence enough to improve their performance.

A ritual may not alter the laws of physics.

A ritual can absolutely alter attention, emotion, stress, and behavior.

A story can be fictional.

A story can still change the course of a life.

As someone who spends a great deal of time thinking about systems, this idea feels familiar. We often create false choices because they are easier to understand. We like neat categories. Right or wrong. Science or wonder. Logic or emotion.

Real life is rarely that tidy.

One of the things neuroscience has taught us is that meaning itself has power. Our expectations influence our bodies. Our beliefs shape our decisions. The stories we tell ourselves affect what we notice, how we feel, and what we do next.

None of that requires us to abandon science.

At the same time, understanding the mechanisms behind an experience does not necessarily strip away its beauty.

Knowing how a rainbow forms does not make it less breathtaking.

Understanding why a blessing calms the mind does not make it less meaningful.

Perhaps the need my book is trying to answer is not a scientific one at all.

Perhaps it is giving people permission to live in a world where evidence and wonder can sit at the same table.

Perhaps it is simply an argument that we do not always have to choose.

Sometimes two things can be true at once.