When do I feel most free?

Ah, I know. When I write fiction.

Nothing matches the sense of freedom I feel when I settle into a comfortable chair with either my laptop or a notebook and pen and write a random sentence or fragment of dialogue with no idea where it will take me. From there, the words begin to flow, each one informing the next, each story choice setting a whole world into motion inside my head. The outside world melts away as an inner one takes shape—with houses and streets and people and problems and, ultimately, perhaps not a solution, but some sort of resolution.

Gone are my external worries. Who cares at that moment about mortgages or electric bills or phone calls to return or people to see? None of that matters. Instead, I am focused on characters who are facing a problem while they inhabit a place that may or may not be so different from my own spot in the world. But in this case, I can be a man, woman, boy, girl, or anyone in between—as well as rich or poor, black, white, or brown, tall or short, fat or skinny, sincere or sarcastic. Whatever suits the story I am writing.

When I return to my life, I am either reluctantly pulled from the muse’s embrace or else sated after getting the story onto the page. Either way, I’ve experienced life in another world and am aware that I can return any time I wish.

Real freedom?

When I write make-believe stories.

The best part: I can write them at a café or at home or on the beach. Location is not critical.

Just give me a few minutes to myself.

The freedom will follow.