We've all been there right?
All of us have read at least one fantasy novel in our lives that made us wish that the world itself was real, one that we could leave behind our original Earth and go to this other world instead?
I grew up in a household that couldn't understand, the concept of fantasy was almost a taboo being seen as something that would make people look at your like you were insane.
"Keep yourself root in reality."
These were words offered to me by my mother.
But still the ever calling lure of fantasy kept reaching out, trying to drag me away from reality.
And I mean why shouldn't it?
Reality sucks am I right?
Having to commit textbook after textbook of information into your mind only to wind up using like 10% of it after you graduate.
Being subjected to daily rituals and regulations that only see fit to brainwash the attendees into thinking their a big fish in a small pond only to again graduate and find they were a frog in a well.
I remained rooted in reality until I got my first job, nothing grand just a paper route that first job almost all of us share, but with my own money I could buy what I wanted and so my 'secret' collection started.
First with comics depicting humans with abnormal powers being able to go above an beyond humanities limits becoming superhuman.
But the call of fantasy was strong just this taste test was not enough to quench the thirst growing within me.
And so I moved on to true fantasy with books depicting completely new worlds, ones that had races that didn't exist on earth, with concepts of powers and magic that never could exist on our boring planet.
This started the downward spiral as I fell hard into fantasy but not so much as to reject reality outright.
But even while I kept one foot deeply rooted in reality playing the front at least externally to my family, the other foot was rooted deeply in fantasy.
Behind their backs I worked not only to delve into the fantasy archives absorbing all the knowledge I could find there.
But also evolving to the point of creating worlds of my own as well.
Writing my own stories, games, and books featuring characters, worlds, and places I had only ever dreamed of but in doing so putting pen to paper caused these worlds to become 'real' in a sense.
As reality continued to disappoint as it progressed in a way only reality could, fantasy just got better and better.
And in recent years the number of people on earth who had completely fallen under fantasy's sway was increasing, along with the conspiracy theory belief that all these 'otherworld' stories were not just that.
Stories... not fiction but rather recollections, or even memories depicting 'real' events.
This led to a wave of deaths amonst fantasy fans as they ended their own lives all in the pursuit of this conspiracy being real and granting their fervant wishes to get the chance to leave reality behind for another 'better' world.
Thankfully since I still had one foot in reality the thought never crossed my mind and each time I heard of another death or suicide from a well know fantasy lore buff, I could only chuckle and shake my head, before offering up the solemn prayer we fantasists had come up with.
"I wish you well, should you reach the otherside."
None of us truly believe our prayer meant anything more than a gentle comfort, but the thought itself was comforting, on that 1/1,000,000 chance then our prayers would truly mean something.
As I sat back in my home, staring at the shelves my fantasy collection had expanded to the point that the collection took up an entire wall of my office.
Even a section reserved for my own writings, which covered a wide array of topics and settings within the fantasy genre.
My success as an author was known to my family, but even still they didn't get it.
To them it was a hobby and regularly told me not to quit my dayjob.
Not that I would, writing 24/7 sounded like a monumental task to be honest.
But even still working forty hours a week, and writing in my down time was also quite taxing.
Cracking my knuckles I pushed off the growing cloud of despair as I looked at my own life a bit critically.
Before turning my attention back to my computer where my latest novel was waiting for the perfect ending.
This would be the final volume and I couldn't leave the fans wanting more knowing there wouldn't ever be any.
My fingers dancing around the keyboard as the story progressed, the loose ends tied up, and the characters all getting their endings lain before them.
As I reached the final section my mind raced, as much as I liked fantasy this particular book series while my most successful also felt like a burden since my contract 'forced' me to keep writing till it was over, not allowing me to pursue other idea's I had until this one was dealt with.
But now, it's over, and I was free to write anew once more.
But as I worked to put in the author message at the end just before the copyright page my eyes drew heavy, I had dedicated this weekend to getting the book finished, and pushed myself a little bit to hard.
But still I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and kept typing away.
Meanwhile my brain remained in overdrive as I passionately assured my fanbase that while this series was over, my career as a writer was not and to look forward to the next piece of work I released.
A world of monsters, heroes, heroines, villains, magic, powers, everything swirled around in my mind, and before i knew it the section was done, all my passion spilling out to complete the work, and with one final click of my mouse.
It was saved.
...
But i was not.