When people say, “happy place”, they tend to focus on the latter half of the word.

“Place”, that is.

Sometimes it’s a bright, sandy beach with refreshing lapping waves, or a cozy beanbag nook where they can curl up and read, or a luscious meadow where they’re nestled tight inside their boyfriend’s arms.

Sometimes they are alone and at peace, sometimes they are with the ones they love. Sometimes they are being protected, where other times they are so warm and comfortable they don’t feel the need to be protected at all.

Where is my happy place?

When I think happy place, I really don’t think of a place, in terms of location. Just a feeling, a passion, rather, that I can get lost in when the stress won’t subside and the world seems to be crashing down on top of me.

Writing. My hands flying across the keyboard, or dancing across the page, telling stories of grand adventurers and silent betrayals and heartfelt lovers and everything in between. Getting lost in the lives of my characters— where I can escape my own troubles and instead remedy theirs— is my happy place. It’s ironic, really, that I feel most alive when I’m telling the story of someone who isn’t. I feel like I’m finally gasping reality, having a handle on the world and on their life— my life— when I’m sipping a chai tea latte and watching the plot line play out in my head like a mental movie, absentmindedly recording it as an audience to their drama.

Escapism is my valued companion. My characters are my soul, my villains my friends. And everything they do in between is the story of something I get to create; and in that sense, I can never be thankful enough for the fact that I get to lay out an an entirely new and wonderful universe with the meager tool of a pen.

People often ask me where my happy place is.

Someday, I hope to show it to the world.