To Write, To Dream

As an aspiring novelist, I’ve been told that I use my writing to isolate myself from the world, to escape, to hide, etc. etc.

While all of those accusations may be true, to whatever degree, as I recently pathetically bemoaned the potential of having to return to working at the office of my “day job” instead of remotely, at home, which I love and prefer and would do (almost) anything to maintain on a permanent basis—I had a thought.

Call it an epiphany if you will, but let’s at least examine it before we label it anything so groundbreaking as that.

(Obviously, I need not first explain that I hold to J.R.R. Tolkien’s philosophy regarding escapism and storytelling as I would think anyone reading this blog would know me well enough to assume on that, but regardless, I will include those quotes to provide context to my person.)

I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which ‘Escape’ is now so often used. Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?

Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?. . . If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!

J. R. R. Tolkien

The usual accusation I hear is, “You’ve always got your head trapped in the clouds, like you’re trying to run away from something or live in your own little world!”

My quip response is, “Of course I am. I created my own world.”

Though I frequently leave it there, what I wish to continue saying is how I’m constantly wanting to write about and share it with everyone. “Why would I not, almost at all times, mentally dwell there to know and understand it better?” This leads me to another topic, about meditation, but I’m going to ignore that bunny trail as best I can to stay focused on the aforementioned topic; this thought, daresay epiphany, I experienced.

Getting to work from home this past year—though for circumstances I would rather have never happened—was a taste of what I have long desired, of what I have long hoped would become my permanent career environment, as it were. As I contemplated this bliss, of how being allowed to indulge in the sweetness of working remote satisfied a craving I’ve never been able to quench, I pondered why that is, why I so thoroughly enjoyed working from home. (I realise, of course, how my enjoyment is the minority, but if you disagree with me, pretend for a moment you, too, prefer such a situation.)

To work remotely, to work from home—but more specifically, to be an author/writer/novelist/whatever and work from home—is to be in a constant state of dreaming. At least, to me. And not because of the frequency I was able to take naps like a lolling cat.

Usually if someone tells you, “You have your head in the clouds,” they essentially are calling you a dreamer. Traditionally, culturally fairy tales, or fairy stories as Tolkien calls them, are primarily admired by these so called “dreamers”, those people who have a way of viewing the world as it should be, perhaps as though a glass were half full, with a whimsical, idealistic streak in their person. Hence why they read fairy stories, fantasy, etc. It appeals to that inner, inherent desire to dream (which I would also call a longing to repair the world, but that’s an entirely different topic yet again).

For me—as someone who both (almost exclusively) reads fantasy and aspires to be a fantasy novelist—writing is perpetuating that dream.

Writing is dreaming.

To write is to dream.

Staying home all day, writing away in my corner of the upstairs loft, sometimes taking a break to go bask in the sunshine or grab a book off a shelf to then get lost in researching some historical term for hours so I can write one blasted word I can’t remember—this is what is means to be in a constant, perpetual state of dreaming. By doing so, by getting lost in my own little world, by putting pen to paper, I am physically materializing the instantiation of my world, of my hopes, of my dreams.

I am bringing to life my dreams.

Now—my philosophies, aspirations, and desires probably differ from most authors out there, and while I cannot speak for all authors, ever, I would think the majority of us, if not all of us, maintain the singular, unifying goal that no matter what we write, we wish to inspire our readers. We long to give them hope. Therefore, it is not simply to create a dream, to provide an escape, to perpetuate the dream in which the reader dwells, but rather to continue feeding the hope living in the soul of the reader.

Thus, to dream is to hope.

If I be some prisoner, whether in soul or body, and if I have discovered a world outside my prison, I am only longing to escape to what I see is life, and as Tolkien so impeccably put, to take as many as I can with me.

So I write.