Fantasy is what I read. It is also what I write. But why? Why, of all the genres in the world, have I chosen the most impossible one to maybe my mark in? My family doesn’t read it. My friends don’t read it. And yet it is the place I feel most at home.
When writing about the real world, I am overtaken with fear that people will take my fiction and think that it is based on fact. Historical fiction? What if they think a character actually existed? Am I distorting reality?
So of course I go to a place where reality is what I want it to be. If there are monsters, and magic, and other things which do not exist, then I know that I don’t need to worry about the truth. The truth is whatever I want it to be.
When it comes to reading it’s a little bit different. Fantasy gives me the opportunity to travel without leaving my room, to be a different person. It is freeing and somehow exhilarating.
The weirdest thing is that when I write, it is always based on the real world. My characters are human, it is the setting which changes. Clockwork and magic and time dilation run amok, and I create a world which is just different enough to be unsettling.