I was being a little lazy this morning. It’s my day off, so I was lounging in bed and staring at my bookshelf. I began thinking, those books contain worlds–universes, really–that I’ve explored, and retraveled, as I read them over and again. For instance, I’ve been committed to the Redwall series for a long time (I started reading the series in middle school, some fifteen years ago), and I relish every journey into Mossflower Wood, in the company of battle-hardened hares and sword-wielding squirrels. I feel like I’ve been there. I can picture the sunrise over the rose hued abbey walls as if I’m remembering a visit to a real place. I can feel the cool shadiness of the woods, and see the trees from the perspective of little woodland creatures. I know, the whole premise seems twee, but I like the stories. I absolutely love the descriptions. I love the characters.
It is stories like these which inspired me to pursue writing in the first place. I want to create worlds that other readers will enjoy, and which may even inspire future authors. I love reading because it provides a way to immerse myself in other places, places that only exist due to another human’s imagination, and yet come alive in mine. I love writing because I can create worlds of my own, providing the experience I enjoy to other readers. It does not matter if the fictional settings are inspired by real places; it is what the author does with them that is important.