Sometimes, real life pales in comparison to fiction.
It’s not escapism. I loathe escapism.
It’s like an on-off switch. And I can’t read it half so well as I can write it. Feeling as much as your characters feel, stealing their dreams, realising their fears, dropping them into the abyss of love. I feel like I am stretching the limits of my mental and emotional capacities, and I like that.
Of course, you wouldn’t want most of this shit to be real.