I have a comfort zone when it comes to my writing. It is a reflection of what I enjoy most to read. I create worlds in which I myself want to get lost in. I create characters who are flawed but wonderful. They speak to me as if real people, and a small part of me feels guilty when I place one challenge after another in front of them. But my worlds are very different from the one I live in. They are worlds of fantasy where dragons and heroines fight to preserve what is right with the world. Good and bad are more defined than in the real world, not always entirely clear at first, but by the end, both my characters and I know with absolutely certainty.
There usually isn’t much room for the “real world” in my writing. The real world is more complicated, and less magical. It’s still beautiful, still mysterious, and still full of miracles, but the closest thing to a dragon is the angry lady ahead of me at the checkout counter. So, I usually stay away from this kind of reality, allowing my imagination to create a new reality.
Lately, however, I’ve been finding my fantasy worlds being constantly assaulted by the outside world. They don’t seem to be able to escape the real world, both in a good way, and a bad. This has led me to strange dreams that later become strange short stories. They are far outside of my comfort zone. Reality sprinkled with fantasy, rather than fantasy sprinkled with reality. I’ve read them over and over, wondering if they say what I want them to say, questioning whether they should ever see the light of day. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be able to find the answers in my words, so I’ve decided to show them to the light of a dim room, filled with my writing buddies, and see whether they should be read by others, or buried away in a file somewhere.