The Author Who Lived: J.K. Rowling, Neville Longbottom, and the Magic of Assumption

J.K. Rowling didn’t need a wand to perform real magic – her spell was the unshakeable assumption that she was an author, long before the world recognised her as one. In the 1990s, Rowling was an unemployed single mother in Edinburgh, writing in cafés while her baby daughter slept, yet she lived as an author in her mind every day. This fierce persistence of identity, even in the face of poverty and repeated rejection, reflects a powerful mystical principle known as the Law of Assumption – the belief that whatever identity you consistently assume to be true will eventually harden into reality. Rowling’s journey from welfare to wizards is a case study in manifestation: by refusing to collapse her self-concept as a writer, she ultimately wrote her way into the reality she had envisioned. Incredibly, her real-life saga even finds a parallel in the Harry Potter series itself – particularly in the transformative arc of Neville Longbottom, a character who goes from timid outcast to courageous hero by learning to assume a braver identity. In this inspirational exploration, we’ll see how Rowling “lived in the end” as an author through dark times, how a series of small but magical “bridging” incidents led to Harry Potter’s success, and how Neville’s evolution mirrors the same Law of Assumption at work. It’s a story of faith in one’s vision – a tale to remind us that holding onto who you know you are, even when no one else sees it yet, is the real-life magic that can change everything.

Living as an Author Before the World Knew Her

From childhood, Joanne Rowling imagined herself as a writer. “For as long as I can remember I wanted to be an author,” she recalls, describing how creating stories was always her truest joy. This self-concept only grew stronger as life tested her. In the seven years after university, Rowling’s life unraveled – her mother’s death, a short-lived marriage ending, single motherhood with no job – leaving her “as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless”, and feeling like “the biggest failure I knew”. By every external measure, she had hit rock bottom. But crucially, she never stopped writing. “Depressed, alone, and jobless,” Rowling pursued the one thing that gave her identity meaning – writing – often scribbling in cafés while her infant daughter Jessica slept in a pram. Too poor to afford heating or even photocopying, she would bundle her baby, buy a cheap coffee, and write furiously whenever she could, even retyping entire drafts by hand to submit to publishers. In her own words, “I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me.” Writing wasn’t just a hobby – it was who she was, her lifeline and identity. Even when thirteen publishers in a row would eventually turn down her manuscript, Rowling lived as an author, not a failure, pinning her rejection letters to her kitchen wall like battle trophies and pressing onward. This refusal to relinquish her identity – to assume success as a storyteller despite all evidence to the contrary – is the quiet, steadfast magic that underpins her triumph.

The Law of Assumption: Identity as a Magical Force

In the world of manifestation and mysticism, belief in one’s assumed identity is often called the Law of Assumption. The core idea is simple yet profound: “whatever you assume to be true will eventually become your reality. Instead of merely wishing or passively dreaming, you claim an identity or outcome internally and live from that belief, allowing the outer world to catch up. As spiritual teacher Neville Goddard put it, “Assume you are what you want to be, and you will become it.” Rowling’s journey is a perfect illustration of this principle in action. She assumed the identity of a successful author well before it was objectively real – carrying herself with the dedication and urgency of someone who had a great story to finish and share. She could have easily accepted defeat and redefined herself as a failed writer; many in her situation did. But Rowling almost stubbornly clung to the vision of herself as a novelist, immersing in that role every day by writing, planning, and even visualising her books on shelves. This persistent “living in the end” created a kind of energetic alignment with her goal. Each time she faced a setback – another rejection letter or a personal hardship – she treated it not as a final verdict on her dream, but as a challenge to overcome on the way to the inevitable outcome she envisioned. In a very real sense, Rowling manifested her success by never shifting out of the identity of “I am a writer”, no matter how many external voices told her “No.” The universe, as if taking a cue from her unwavering assumption, eventually began to move circumstances in accordance with her self-concept. This is the “magic” of the Law of Assumption: when you stay loyal to the unseen reality of who you know you are, the world has a way of rearranging itself to mirror that faith.

Rejection as the Forge of Persistence

One might say J.K. Rowling’s true Patronus Charm was her resilience against rejection. As she marched her Harry Potter manuscript around, she amassed a stack of rejections – a dozen publishers declined the book, some with patronising advice that a children’s fantasy would never sell. The litany of “no’s” would have discouraged almost anyone. Yet, Rowling viewed herself not as an unwanted aspirant, but as an author waiting for the right opportunity. She later revealed that she even kept her rejection letters, joking how one particularly rude letter became useful for “inspiration” years later when she was famous. It wasn’t revenge she was after – it was a reminder that she had been right about herself all along. Each rejection was painful, but she didn’t let it rewrite her internal narrative. Instead, rejection became the forge that strengthened her conviction. “Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged,” Rowling mused, reflecting on how failure clarified her purpose. This is a crucial aspect of identity persistence: when you refuse to quit, adversity can actually deepen your belief. Rowling’s commitment to being a writer only intensified with each setback – a phenomenon many great creators echo. The alchemy of her persistence eventually turned lead into gold. After countless turndowns, one publisher (Bloomsbury) finally took a chance – but even that came with a caveat. Rowling was advised to “get a day job” because making a living in children’s books was deemed unlikely. It’s almost poetic: even as the door to her dream opened, doubt still whispered on the threshold. But by then, Rowling’s self-concept was unsinkable. She had embodied the role of successful author for years in her imagination; reality simply had to catch up. Bloomsbury’s acceptance in 1996 was the first outward validation of a truth she already held inside. What followed – the explosion of Harry Potter into a worldwide phenomenon – seems, in hindsight, like destiny. But it was a destiny forged by years of unseen faith and grit. Rowling herself said it best: “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”jimhamilton.info Without those rock-bottom rejections, the triumph might not have been so sweet. In her story, every “no” was a stepping stone to the definitive “yes.”

Bridging Incidents: Small Magic that Led to Breakthrough

Between the seed of a dream and its grand fulfillment lies a series of “bridging incidents” – subtle turns of fate and small victories that help reality inch closer to the vision. Rowling’s journey is full of these little magical moments that, in retrospect, were crucial links in the chain:

• The Train Vision (1990): Stuck on a delayed train from Manchester to London, a young Jo Rowling was struck by an electric idea – “a boy who went to wizarding school” seemingly appeared in her mind’s eye, “teeming” with possibilities. With no pen at hand, she spent four hours living in the story in her head, imagining details of Harry Potter’s world. This moment of inspiration was a gift, but also a test – would she dismiss it or assume it was hers to write? Rowling embraced it fully. She later said that by the time she got to put pen to paper, she knew this story was the one meant for her. This vivid initial assumption set the entire saga in motion.
• Writing in the Cafés: In the mid-90s, as a single mother on state benefits, Rowling made a ritual of writing in Edinburgh cafés like The Elephant House. Far from a bohemian indulgence, it was born of necessity – her unheated flat wasn’t comfortable for the baby. Whenever baby Jessica fell asleep in her pram, Rowling would dash to the nearest café and “write like mad.” She later joked that Jessica’s naps determined how much she could get done. These stolen hours in cafés, scribbling on napkins or old notebooks, bridged the gap between being an aspiring writer and a productive author. Each page written by lamp light or coffee steam was a quiet declaration: I am writing a novel. Little by little, café by café, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone took shape.
• The Scottish Grant: Around 1996, Rowling received a modest £8,000 grant from the Scottish Arts Council to support new writers. This was a small financial bridge that bought her time to finish the book. It wasn’t fame or success, but it was validation from somewhere: an official nod that her work had promise. Rowling used every penny to keep writing. The grant served as a glimmer of external affirmation, arriving just when she might have been tempted to give up.
• “The Best Letter Ever”: After finishing three chapters, Rowling sent out sample chapters to literary agents. Dozens ignored her, but then one day she received what she called “the best letter I had ever received in my life.” An agent named Christopher Little saw something in her pages and asked to read the full manuscript. This was a pivotal incident – someone in the industry finally said “I believe in your story.” Christopher Little became her agent and spent a year pitching the book to publishers. Though lots of them turned it down, he persisted. That one yes from an agent was the crack in the dam that eventually led to Bloomsbury. It’s a testament to how one person’s belief can reinforce your own; Rowling’s inner assumption gained an important ally.
• The Little Girl Who Loved Harry: Even after Bloomsbury received the full manuscript, the final push came from an unexpected source. The chairman of Bloomsbury gave the first chapter to his 8-year-old daughter, Alice, to read – and she loved it. In fact, she reportedly begged to know what happened next, insisting it was “so much better than anything else” she’d read. Alice’s genuine childlike enthusiasm convinced Bloomsbury to take a chance on Harry Potter. This innocent vote of confidence from the book’s target audience was the magic spark the story needed. It’s poetic that a child’s imagination helped validate Rowling’s imagined world. In June 1997, Bloomsbury finally published Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, in an initial print run of just 500 copies.

Each of these incidents was modest on its own – a daydream, a writing habit, a small grant, a letter, a child’s opinion – but together they formed a bridge from Rowling’s assumed identity to her tangible success. They illustrate a profound truth: when you hold an assumption ( “I am an author” ) and act in alignment with it, life tends to meet you halfway. Seemingly chance events and helping hands materialise at the right time. Rowling could not have predicted when or how her break would come. But by staying in character as an author, she was ready to seize these moments. In manifestation lore, this is often how the universe works – through “bridge of incidents” that lead you, step by step, to the fulfillment of your assumption. Or as Dumbledore might say, “help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it” – and indeed, help came to Rowling once she fully committed to her path.

Neville Longbottom: From “Nobody” to Heroic Somebody

In the fictional halls of Hogwarts, Neville Longbottom starts out as anything but a hero. He’s introduced as a round-faced, nervous boy who can barely keep track of his toad, let alone perform magic confidently. Sorted into Gryffindor – the house of the brave – Neville doesn’t believe he belongs there at first. In Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, he’s timid, forgetful, and intimidated by classmates and professors alike. Yet, even in the first book, we see a glimmer of Neville’s latent courage: he famously stands up to his own friends to stop them from breaking rules. This act is small but significant – Neville acts according to what he feels is right, despite his fear. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends,” Dumbledore declares, awarding Neville ten points for his courage, a gesture that clinches Gryffindor the House Cuptime.com. That moment plants a seed of identity in Neville: maybe the Sorting Hat wasn’t wrong, maybe he is brave deep down.

As the series progresses, Neville’s character arc is a masterclass in the Law of Assumption within a fantasy narrative. Through mentorship and necessity, Neville slowly starts assuming the identity of a courageous wizard. In Order of the Phoenix, he joins Dumbledore’s Army (the secret student group training to fight Voldemort) and, away from mocking eyes, blossoms in confidence. He practices spells relentlessly, driven in part by the tragedy of his parents (renowned Aurors tortured into insanity by Death Eaters) and the desire to honour them. With each successful jinx or disarming charm, Neville’s self-concept shifts – he’s no longer “hopeless at magic”; he’s a determined student catching up on lost time. By the time we reach the climactic events of Deathly Hallows, Neville has grown into a leader. While Harry, Ron, and Hermione hunt Horcruxes, Neville rallies the resistance at Hogwarts. He “leads the D.A. and starts to undermine the rule of the Carrows,” the Death Eater teachers, keeping the flame of rebellion alive. Neville endures torture and threats during this period, but his assumption of the role of a leader sustains him – he has become the brave Gryffindor he was meant to be. In the final Battle of Hogwarts, Neville fully steps into his heroism: he defies Voldemort to his face, shouting down the Dark Lord when all hope appears lost. Moments later, Neville pulls the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat – a feat only a true Gryffindor can achieve – and destroys Nagini, Voldemort’s last Horcrux, in one swift, fearless stroke. It is the decisive strike that helps Harry ultimately defeat Voldemort. The timid boy who once shook at the thought of asking a question in class ends up slaying the serpent of the Dark Lord.

Neville’s transformation was no random luck or sudden power-up; it was the result of years of choosing courage despite fear, of believing in the warrior within even when others did not. As one analysis puts it, Neville truly earned the title “the boy who changed,” evolving “from a cowardly person with little skill to the leader of Dumbledore’s Army and slayer of Nagini.” In other words, he assumed the identity of a hero long before the rest of the world saw him as one, and eventually, he became that hero in fact. The prophecy of the series even suggested Neville could have been the “Chosen One” – a notion Neville himself never dared to believe in youth. But in the end, he chooses himself as a champion, fulfilling a destiny of courage that ran parallel to Harry’s. His journey shows that even the most unassuming person can manifest greatness by consistently acting as if they are already the person they want to become. In Neville’s case, every small act of bravery – standing up to friends, fighting alongside Harry at the Ministry, defying the Carrows – was an incremental assumption of the identity of a brave man. By the final battle, there was no act anymore; Neville Longbottom truly was courageous. His outer reality (the respect of his peers, the role he played in Voldemort’s defeat) finally caught up to the inner lion that had been gradually roaring to life.

Parallels Between Jo and Neville: The Power of Persistent Identity

At first glance, a world-famous author and a fictional wizarding student might not have much in common. But J.K. Rowling and Neville Longbottom’s stories reflect the same core truth: identity, persistently assumed, becomes destiny. Both Rowling and Neville started their journeys in relative obscurity – she, a virtually invisible figure among stacks of manuscripts and welfare checks; he, a quiet boy lost in the shadow of larger personalities. Both faced voices (internal and external) telling them they weren’t enough: Rowling was told her book was not marketable, that she should find a “real job”; Neville was told by Snape and others that he lacked talent and bravery. Crucially, both refused to internalise those judgments. Instead, they held onto a different narrative about themselves. Rowling insisted on seeing herself as an author, imagining a successful future even when her present was full of disappointment. Neville, inspired by mentors like Harry, Lupin, and his grandmother’s expectations, began to see himself as someone who could be brave, even if he didn’t fully believe it at first. In both cases, there was a lag between the identity they claimed and the evidence on the ground. This is where the Law of Assumption does its quiet work – in that gap, faith and action bridge reality.

Rowling’s “law of assumption” manifested in her daily choices: she kept writing, kept submitting, kept imagining her story reaching readers. Neville’s manifested in his daily acts of courage: he kept volunteering for the D.A., kept practicing spells, kept standing up for what was right. Each small act was like a vote of confidence in their assumed identity. And with each vote, that identity strengthened. Over time, the world yielded to their self-concept. Rowling’s private identity as a writer eventually became her public identity; the pages she penned in loneliness became books loved by millions. Neville’s private resolve to be brave eventually became his reputation; the boy who stammered in fear became the man who literally wielded the Sword of Gryffindor. Both journeys also highlight the importance of not giving up before the miracle. Imagine if Rowling had stopped submitting her book at the 12th rejection – Harry Potter might never have seen the light of day. Imagine if Neville had permanently shrunk into himself after one of many humiliations – he might never have found the courage to help save Hogwarts. Neither story was smooth or instantaneous; both involved enduring struggles that could have broken their assumed identities. But by persisting, they turned those struggles into fuel.

There’s also a poetic echo in how help came to them once they held firm in identity. Rowling’s manuscript found its champion (through an agent and a child’s love) almost as if the universe answered her inner certainty with outer opportunity. In the books, when Neville stands up to Voldemort in the final battle – essentially claiming his identity as one of the defenders of Hogwarts – the Sword of Gryffindor presents itself to him, a literal magical response to his courage. It’s as if the cosmos (or in this case, the Sorting Hat enchanted by Gryffindor’s magic) said, “Ah, you truly are what you claim to be – here is the power you need.” In both cases, we see a kind of mystical affirmation: when the character is ready, the opportunity appears. Rowling and Neville each embodied the truth of who they wanted to be, and in doing so, they unlocked achievements that once seemed out of reach.

Conclusion: The Magic of Belief in One’s Identity

J.K. Rowling’s rise from rejected writer to billionaire storyteller, and Neville Longbottom’s rise from shy schoolboy to slayer of evil, both teach us that there is real magic in believing in who you are meant to be – especially when nobody else does. Rowling assumed the mantle of “author” through every dark night of doubt, and in the end, reality bowed to that assumption: the world came to know her as the iconic author she had always felt herself to be. Neville assumed the courage of a Gryffindor even when he felt terrified, and eventually proved to everyone – and most importantly himself – that he was as brave as the best of them. In both tales, the Law of Assumption weaves quietly in the background, reminding us that the identities we nurture within eventually shape the world around us. Rowling once wrote, “It is our choices... that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” In choosing to persist as a writer, she became one of the most influential writers of all time. In choosing to act with bravery, Neville became a hero who changed the course of his fictional world.

Their stories inspire a deeply mystical yet eminently practical message: see yourself as the person you long to become, hold that vision with unwavering faith, and live accordingly. There will be trials – failures, rejections, ridicule – that threaten to break your spell of belief. But if you can meet those trials with the same fierce refusal to surrender your self-concept, as Rowling did pinning up rejection letters or Neville did clenching his wand despite trembling hands, you just might find that life eventually yields to your persistence. As the saying goes, “Your value does not decrease based on someone's inability to see your worth.” Rowling’s worth was invisible to 12 publishers; Neville’s valor was doubted by many at Hogwarts – yet neither of them let others define them. They defined themselves, and in time, the world agreed.

In a world hungry for hope, their journeys feel like modern fairy tales – not because of wands or wizards, but because they affirm that there is a kind of everyday magic in self-belief. It’s the magic that allows a story to be born in a train delay and grow into a cultural phenomenon. It’s the magic that allows a boy who thought he was ordinary to become extraordinary. It’s the magic living in all of us when we dare to assume the best about ourselves. So whatever dream you carry, whatever identity whispers in your heart – author, artist, healer, hero – nurture it, believe in it even if the outer world says you’re “not there yet.” Like Rowling writing into the night or Neville stepping forward when it counted, keep embodying your vision in small daily ways. You might find that this steadfast assumption becomes a powerful charm, one that summons the people, opportunities, and inspiration needed to bridge the gap between imagination and reality. And one day, you’ll tell your own story – of how you persisted as who you knew you truly were, and how, like magic, the world finally reflected that truth back to you.