Ever been in your own little world? Of course you have. That's why you're a writer. Lately I've been inhabiting the fantasyland of my latest book. Since it is set in the nineteenth century, I find I've gotten a little strange. French phrases have begun to pepper my vocabulary. I felt chilly this morning and wondered where my pelisse was. I find gaslight strangely soothing.
Yes, I've well and truly lost it. Worst of all, I intend to stay in my London fog (no, not the coat) for at least another couple of months. My poor family.
But this started me thinking about imaginary worlds and books. Isn't this why many of us read? I want to be transported from my land of dirty dishes and homework to something different, something not mine. I want history, far away lands, vampires, victorian drawing rooms, flying monkeys. I want to be transported. That is basically why I read. Any author who can take me away (Yes. Just like Calgon.) is someone I will return to over and over.
That is what the best authors do. They create another world and invite you to step into it. I suppose this explains my current fascination with historical fiction. It is so very clearly NOT the here and now. I'm gonna ruminate on this for a couple of days--perhaps over a nice cuppa or some sherry. It's almost calling time and I need to be ready to recieve callers. Please instruct my groom to prepare the carriage. I have some shopping to do on Bond Street and I need to see my modiste.