As an author I spend an awful lot of time in Fantasyland. When I’m writing, that world seems just about as real this one. Remembering which world I’m in is important, but sometimes I get confused. Driving past Arastradero Road in the foothills above Palo Alto, I can say to someone, “Oh, this is where Rowena got run down.” And that someone can reply, “Oh, how sad, but, um, who’s Rowena?” And then I remember she’s a character in that other world which exists only in my mind and in the mind of readers of Smasher.
Now, though, I am really confused.
I’ve told friends that I just wanted the Giants to win the World Series before I die. Monday night I think I saw them win their fourth game on TV. Did I really? Am I still in Fantasyland? I've never written anything so unlikely in one of my novels.
I grew up watching the Giants finish in 2nd place five straight seasons despite the presence of such baseball deities as Willie Mays and Juan Marichal. I was in the stands at Candlestick just before game 3 of the World Series when the Loma Prieta Earthquake struck. In 2002 I was not surprised when the Giants were up five runs only six outs away from winning the Series and still managed to lose to the Angels.
This lifelong experience with the Giants has colored my outlook on life. Something bad is always ready to snatch away consummation of your dream. This world-view might be what drove me to writing fiction. In Fantasyland I can control what happens.