I’m not a huge fan of reality in art. The primary interaction I want with a book is to be pulled out of where I stand, out of how I feel, away from my thoughts, and brought to an elsewhere; and preferably one I then do not want to leave. Of course this predilection was formed in childhood, from the desire to escape what I could not, to leave a place where I had little control. To pretend for a little while to be someone else, somewhere else, a character with independence whose friendships hardened through trial into something unwaveringly reliable. I see the merit of portraying the real; the provision of role models, fostering social change, raising awareness of the wrongs of this world. Life carries its fair share of real pain, real disappointment, real boredom, real chores. But for the most part I would rather feel good than bad. I would rather dream than pay very much attention to a sink full of dishes that will not wash themselves. And I don’t want to spend too much time with a character’s dishes either. I write for the reader who wants to experience something their real life cannot provide.