Forging Worlds and Exploring Character: A Sacred Escape
I love my day job, and I’m blessed with the team I get to work with. Recently, I’ve told a few coworkers that I’ve authored a book. Many have responded by asking, “How do you find the time or energy to do that?”
Although empathetic, it’s an interesting question—because it reflects an innocent misconception about writing comedic fantasy fiction. Yes, writing might look like work from the outside. But from where the enthusiastic storyteller sits, it can also be an escape.
The world can be crooked, scary, and sometimes unhappy. In response, many of us seek escape in one form or another. Some watch the big game, some grind at the gym, some shop for new shoes. Beyond these, there are countless ways to step outside ourselves. One of mine is playing tabletop role‑playing games with my wife, my brother, and my friends. I also enjoy video games and British murder mysteries like Shetland or Endeavour.
But my primary escape is entering the rich world of Jimmyville. Its characters are worlds unto themselves—each a unique make‑believe machine navigating diverse events and interactions. I puppet their personalities and histories, engineering them as I go. It’s exhilarating imagining what they’re thinking. And often, I find myself surprised, appalled, or delighted right alongside them.
Writing fantasy is a world apart from composing a letter to the IRS or emailing my boss for more paperclips. It’s writing at the edge of oblivion, wading into my characters’ hopes and fears. I go with them as they stumble toward their destinies. I feel the wild danger of their struggles, as well as the joy and catharsis of their heroic victories.
The creation of imaginary people feels reckless and naïve. It’s like being a kid again, when you weren’t entirely sure there wasn’t a moaning ghost in the wind outside your window. For a child, more is possible—both in fear and in delight. Envisioning fangbeasts or offended gnomish entrepreneurs restores that same sense of wonder.
As the storyteller, you have the power to suspend adult logic and rationale. You’re a sorcerer weaving unreality out of vocabulary and magic dust. Through your craft, you can teleport a reader into this dream world and delight them there. Like the glowing orb of an anglerfish, you can draw them in, stealing them from suffering. Like a Lionsguardian Herosword, it’s an awesome power—and only a writer can wield it.
It’s not a burden of typed keys. It’s a much‑desired escape from mundane, burdensome, and restrictive reality.
