Guest post written by author Jessica Kara
Jessica Kara is a professional author and artist. A Furry Faux Paw (Page Street 2022) was her debut contemporary young adult novel. She currently resides in northwest Montana with her husband, where she spends her time staring at the mountains, drinking a lot of coffee, dreaming up things and people, and chirping back at birds. Her new release Don’t Ask If I’m Okay is out now. For more information on Jess and her books, visit authorjessicakara.com.
When you’re a kid, reading books about sword-wielding heroes performing great acts of valor, all you feel is longing, like you want to do those things. It’s hard to move that into the real world, to understand it really means, in the end. Here, in this place. —from Don’t Ask if I’m Okay
A mariner’s map is spread across the captain’s table, lit by oil lamps rocking with the motion of the stormy sea. The well-worn parchment depicts the known world, lands etched in careful detail, along with the seas that draw their borders. The captain charts a course, avoiding the wild open ocean where it is declared, “Here there be Dragons.”
Those ancient mapmakers knew there weren’t really dragons in the literal sense—as least, I would think. Dragons were storms, rocks, uncharted water, whirlpools: all the dangers they were not equipped to handle.
We all deal with dragons, some more than others. They raid the little villages of our hearts as loss, violence, illness, challenge, and fear. In a hungry, fire-breathing world, we must learn how to defend ourselves and others, and after the battle is done, to maybe still see beauty and wonder.
It’s a lifelong, taxing quest, and sometimes when we turn for comfort to a story (whether in a book, a movie, or a game), it can feel like avoiding the dragons. Indeed, we are often accused of “escaping.”
As it turns out, escaping into stories is crucial to our survival.
When I was young, the only true adventure and heroism was in stories. My aesthetic was swords and leather gauntlets, horses, monsters, campfires, and quests (okay, it still is). I was increasingly disappointed by reality and a sense of loss for a life I would never lead, a suspicion that I had been born in the wrong time or dimension.
Fortunately, something magical came from this longing (usually where there is longing, there is magic to be found). With my insatiable consumption of stories came the need to create my own.
Teen-Jess was always writing and drawing. Reading. Playing fantasy games, re-watching The Last Unicorn. This was in the 90s, mind you, when fantasy fare in film was sparse. In college I escaped daily into online role play. Creating those characters and worlds helped me as a writer later on and I made friends that lasted to this day, but I remained uninterested in cultivating more than the bare minimum of real life until later.
Escaping? Maybe. It was also an absolutely vital time for me, stepping into stories to come out again as more myself.
It took me years to realize that fantasy was helping me make sense of reality. I came slowly to understand that the wonder in my other worlds opened my eyes to the wonder in ours. The power, heroism, majesty and mystery of stories taught me how to recognize it in life.
Which is, of course, what stories are meant to do.
When I struggled in school I imagined myself as the reluctant hero trudging through an undesirable yet necessary task on the path to greatness. When I was intimidated I would turn to a book hero, I would become an X-man, or I would imagine myself as the dragon.
Every time I escaped into stories, I returned with improved stats. A sense of honor and hope, inspiration to act with courage and fairness, and the desire to encourage others to do the same.
All of the things I wanted in those worlds, I tried to embody. Here. In this world.
When I wrote Gage for Don’t Ask If I’m Okay, I set out to create a character who was like me, my readers, and my friends: those who need to escape to grow stronger, to find themselves, to disappear down the rabbit hole and over the threshold and have grueling adventures before they return again, refreshed and galvanized by what they have read, played, or seen. (Even my switch from writing fantasy to contemporary was at first driven by wanting to tell those stories, but that’s another essay).
Gage as a character has enjoyed a relatively sheltered life, and the death of his best friend presents his first true, shocking challenge. Part of the way he copes is by comparing himself to all the characters he loves and seeing how they press on, despite all.
It is not only fun to imagine that your grocery run is actually a walk to Mordor, it is how we’re built.
Visualization is one of the coolest and more powerful things our brains can do, for better, or worse. Your brain doesn’t know that intimidating phone call isn’t a dragon–but it also doesn’t know you aren’t Wonder Woman, or a great knight, or a dragon yourself.
When we spend time living in a story, we take on all those roles. We take on all those strengths, and we practice emotions in a safe, controlled way. You might not be able to manifest a million dollars by just thinking about it (sigh) but you can absolutely imagine yourself as the last badass video game character you played and make that phone call.
We’re not just escaping. We’re rehearsing. We’re training.
There is also research which shows that reading fiction makes us kinder and more compassionate, better able to empathize with others—especially those who are different from us. Moving through an entire story in someone else’s head? Of course. We become them, overcoming obstacles together, getting our hearts broken, achieving our dreams. Even in marketing, the best way to catch the consumer’s interest and sell a product is through a Story.
Humans are wired for stories in a way that predates and transcends written language. We are captured by stories, hungry for stories, empowered by stories. If we cannot find stories, we create our own. Neurologically, all meaning and sense-making of our lives is done through stories we tell ourselves about our experiences.
Of course we “escape” to games, books, and movies. It’s how we learn best. It’s how we empathize, emulate, feel understood, find community and insight, and grow. We tell our friends, You HAVE to watch this! to strengthen our bonds because we instinctively know the power in shared stories.
When I want to say something vitally important, I tell a story.
I write fantasy epics for young readers to talk about compassion and redemption. I write quiet realistic stories to talk about the epic experiences of loss, love, or being yourself when it feels like the world doesn’t want you.
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’re like my characters. Maybe you feel a sense of nostalgia and longing for a time that never was, or you face dragons I will never know. Maybe your dragons are anxiety, the daily dishes, the horrendous boss in a job you can’t leave, fear of the future, pain over the past. There might be days it when here there be dragons seems to be scrawled across your whole life. Or things are going okay, but it feels like your existence isn’t as wondrous as the ones in the books, movies, and games we love.
But let me tell you: it is. You are.
Those stories are there to help you find yourself and succeed in your own life. There is power in you to rival any sword-wielding elf or Jedi Master. In watering a plant, helping others, cheering on your friends, you are performing noble deeds. You are infusing magic and purpose into this life.
Yes, it is necessary to go to our secret worlds—but as in the great, old tales, it is imperative that we return home again.
Because where there be dragons, there must be heroes, too.
