When I was a kid, the library was a sanctuary for me. I was an abused kid, and I needed to get away from home. Books were a way to step into other worlds. Anne McCaffrey, Piers Anthony, Stephen King, and so many other authors provided those escape routes for me. I loved the smell of the books, the hush of the enormous room, the hot of wandering the stacks in search of my next doorway out of the everyday world.
As an adult, writing has become an even wider doorway. It's not necessarily an escape route anymore, but more of a game of "what if". Whenever I get an idea for a new story, a "what if" situation, it's a joy to explore that, to follow the thread down the rabbit hole. How can I expand on the idea I've had? How can I design and develop a new world around it, fill it with interesting characters?
The joy of writing is something that's difficult to explain. But it's also something that NB asked me just as happy as I was back in the days when I escaped to the library as a child. I am grateful for this gift and and happy to escape into my worlds and share it as often as I can.
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