Other Worlds

I've always had an overactive imagination. Seriously, always. As a kid, when most people were out playing war or playing ball, I was imagining worlds and friends. I saw the woods around me as portals to other worlds. I would cease to be a boy and become a prince, a pirate, a wizard, a dragon-keeper... and anything else I could imagine myself as. My friends became those I could create around me. Every waking moment was spent building a world around me that I wanted to be in. Anyone but this one.


And I'm doing it again.

I've taken upon myself to write a novel set in a world I've been creating since I was a teenager. A world filled with magic, nature, adventure, and, hopefully, depth. It's a world where trees are governed by Masters, the rich have magical guardians, and a brother sets out to avenge his parents' deaths.

It's a world I want to be in, but it's all in my head. And I lose myself to it.

I work in a call center. And as I go on autopilot answering questions with formulated answers, my mind wanders down the paths that I created, forming new places, peoples, and whatever else I can come up with as the day moves on. And then, at night, I find myself constantly finding new things or deepening old things. It's all I can think about sometimes. But, I guess that's the way of it.

One loses oneself to one's art. So I lose myself in the story.