You know that feeling when you open a book and suddenly, the world around you just… disappears?

That’s why I write.

The other day, I posted this on Twitter:
“Books: the only place you can live a thousand lives, break a thousand hearts, and still be home in time for dinner.”
It made me smile because it’s true—not just for readers, but for me as a writer too.

When I sit down to write, especially for middle grade readers, I’m not just stringing together sentences—I’m building doors. Hidden, shimmering doors to places where dragons rule, kids discover they’re secretly magical, and forests whisper ancient secrets if you listen closely enough.

Middle grade fantasy is special because it sits right at the heart of that magical age—when you’re old enough to start asking big questions, but still young enough to believe the answers might involve wizards or talking animals. That’s the sweet spot. That’s where I live.

Growing up, I devoured stories. I went from sword fights in enchanted kingdoms to solving mysteries with clever kids who always figured things out just in time. And even though I was just a kid in pajamas reading under the covers with a flashlight, those stories made me feel like I’d been somewhere. Lived something. Risked it all and made it home in time for mac and cheese.

Now, I write to give that same feeling to someone else. To that kid who might be feeling out of place or invisible or just… bored on a rainy afternoon. My goal is to give them an escape hatch. A portal. A place where they can be brave and curious and weird and wonderful.

Books are time machines, roller coasters, treasure maps, and warm blankets all at once. They’re dangerous in the best way. They challenge us to imagine more, feel more, and understand others. And when it’s done right? When the last page turns and the real world comes back into view? You’re not the same person who started the journey.

You’re a little more you than you were before.

So yeah, books let you live a thousand lives and break a thousand hearts—but the magic is, you always make it home in time for dinner. Maybe just with a bit more fire in your heart.

And if I’m really lucky? One of those thousand lives someone lives… might just be one I wrote.