The Joys of Escapism

As a young person, all I considered worthy of reading was “serious literature.” I figured that one only has so many hours of reading in a lifetime, and the world is filled with so much great literature, that I’d better be choosy about what I read. As I grew older, I still had time for serious literature, but I didn’t think of it as that, simply as what suited my taste. It didn’t occur to me to read for fun, to read something light, frivolous, escapist.

Then I began working at a hellish job, one with terrible hours, a long commute, and a spiteful coworker. It seemed as if I would never get to leave that job (and I had to be grateful for it since it was better than being unemployed). I picked up Terry Pratchett’s Bromiliad trilogy, much loved by both my sons, one they’d read and re-read, to connect with them by reading something they loved. The bonus for my exhausted mind was that it would be easy to read (something that had never before been a category of qualification for a reading selection).

I loved it so much, and more than the books themselves, I loved the escape; I’d forgotten the intense, absorbing pleasure of being carried away from my troubles, and, for a few hours, being really happy. After that, I delved into everything Pratchett had written, escaping.

As a writer, especially when I was a young writer, I wanted to write brilliant literature, something Pulitzer-worthy. After my foray into escapist reading, I know the value of entertainment and know that simply entertaining a reader is enough; I don’t need to be the Great American Novelist. If I am able to temporarily transport people elsewhere and give them respite, I’ll be satisfied with my work.