Yesterday, my son, 11, grabbed my hand and said, “Dad, let’s have an adventure.” And we did. We visited a strange, wonderful land with strange and wonderful creatures. We battled some of those creatures. We pretended to be some of those creatures and battled each other until we discovered a common foe and confronted it together.
When I write, for the most part, I write about adventure: dragons, trolls, swords, magic, wizards, honor, courage, etc. Why? Not to share adventure with anyone, but to experience adventure myself. When I write I enter enchanted realms where anything can and does happen. Writing, not reading, is the best way for me to wield a sword, string an arrow, and step into forgotten kingdoms and wildlands, places I remember, that only I can truly call home…well, my son and I call them home. Is my writing good? Will it make me walthy? famous? Probably not. No matter. I don’t have the time for fame and wealth. I have adventures to live.