I am an ‘escapist’. It’s healthy. It is living. I’ll start with my verdict; of course, just my own. See if I can convince anyone else reading this.

I stumbled upon the experience, sensation, feeling, almost a lifetime before I discovered the term. I mean the full gamut of the term. I didn’t realise that most of the stuff I loved doing (as if I’m the only guy), anything that framed my mind in a positive shade, can be construed as escapism in one of its many iterations. A vacation, family, friends, picnic, beach, music, movie, good food: the list is inexhaustible and universal.

Really, being an ‘escapist’, seemed almost primal. But when combined with imagination, it can play havoc. This is my tool and weapon as a writer. Anyone who writes fiction, is guilty or proud of this crime. As I am. Fiction may mimic reality (depending on genre), but is essentially make believe. And make-believe echoes of escape. Although I say fiction, I’m sure those who write non-fiction may also be guilty of this pleasure. I’ve seen some political columnists and campaigners, rely on this same power source, and more abundantly than me.

Escapism leads to colourful thoughts and creative possibilities in my head; these hook up with my dreams and spill out on paper, these inked meanderings, lead to greater buzz which leads to more outrageous thoughts. And so, the vicious cycle continues. It makes me dizzy, but it’s a good dizzy.

The ‘fantasy’ genre is a toast to pure dreamers (or are they deeper thinkers?) whether in books or movies. J.R.R Tolkien, Enid Blyton (my personal favourite) and J.K Rawlins are just three names among a vast galaxy of literary masters, titans in their craft, who have perfected this art. And in doing so touched the hearts and minds of millions. Brought a smile to so many.

It makes writing a joy and a reflection of honesty. I’m honest to my feelings and my imagination.  In my first book: “The Beast”, I hunted for a mythical beast in the forest, I spent nights on a tree house at misty Horton Plains (in the central highlands of Sri Lanka), I was kidnapped, I faced a leopard, I got lost, I climbed mountains. All through my characters. It’s joyful because I’m one with the stars I create. They play out my fascinations and pander to my imagination; they take me back to my childhood. They hook me up with the child in me. More importantly, I can be one with my own kids.

In my second novel “A Glow in the Forest” I continued the same journey with a carefree bunch of teenagers; set in a medieval world.

I’m still staring at a computer screen in a nine to five job, I still pay off my mortgage, scores of bills and my credit card. That’s a bit from my own reality; and I don’t think, I’ll escape from this reality anytime soon. See, I can be a realist too. But, I can dream of that day. And this dream makes me want to act. NOW.

I’m an escapist. And it feels nice.