Some people read to escape reality, but it’s becoming more and more true that I write to escape reality. I write myself into another place, another time, another circumstance. The one consistency is that my other journey is never easy. There is still pain, turmoil, fear, and uncertainty. Because there is no such thing as a true life without these. There must be a darkness, there must be grief.
How am I to know the sweetness of happiness and peace unless I’ve tasted the bitterness of pain and war?