When some people decide to write a novel, they struggle over what genre to ascribe to, basing their career on what they think other people want to read. For me, writing fantasy was a decision that came easily.

Ever since I was little, I’ve been obsessed with the thought of other worlds where the laws of nature don’t quite mimic our own. Every Halloween growing up, my costume would be some enchanted creature whose shoes I stepped into for a magical night. One year I was a fairy with wings that my mom had fashioned from coat hangers covered in pink gauze. Another year I was Smurfette in one of the plastic-mask-and-smock combos from the drugstore. Even now, as an adult, I enjoy books, movies and television shows with fantasy themes because something special happens when they draw me in. They give me hope that something better exists.

In the fantasy world, there is a rudimentary battle of good versus evil, and a chosen one (or few) can sway the outcome. That’s it. That’s the reason the heroes and heroines in these stories exist. They don’t live to amass wealth and monopolize an industry. Tabloids and the paparazzi don’t rule their lives. Rarely in fantasy do even remotely similar issues arise.

Fantasy also gives me hope that something more exists. Popular, all-American teenagers may not be able to relate, but in high school, I was a nerd. When an essay was due or exam time came, the number of friends I amassed was astounding. The other 350 days of the year, I was “that smart, Asian girl with the Plague.” Fantasy novels made me feel special. I thrived on such a genre, where often the hero or heroine has some shortcoming that turns out to be a blessing in disguise. The quiet, bookish characters are often the ones who hold the key to a country’s salvation; the character with a troubled past rescues everyone else from a troubling future. I felt a little bit exceptional knowing that could be me.

And then there’s the magic. No good fantasy story is devoid of magic. For those lacking the strength of a warrior or the dexterity of a rogue, magic is the skill that evens the playing field. It can rip the warrior’s sword from his hands at a 20-foot distance and can make the most adept rogue seem like a fumbling circus clown. Magic allows its wielders control of their surroundings, an absolute power over their own destinies. It transforms the impossible into something probable.

The one criticism fantasy seems to encounter is its standing in the real world. Fantasy lovers are often seen as dreamers who spend so much time in other worlds that they accomplish nothing in this one. Tell that to Walt Disney, Gary Gygax, Terry Brooks, R.A. Salvatore, J.K. Rowling, Robert Jordan and the hundreds of others who have made their enchanted livings living among the enchanted.

I, myself, turned out rather well with an upbringing steeped in fantasy. Instead of drowning my adolescent sorrows in alcohol or drugs like some of my peers, I drew courage from the written word. In college, I met a man who shared my fascination with all things fantastical, and we have been married for almost five years now. (I also have friends for all 365 days of the year.)

At some point in my writing career, I may choose to delve into contemporary fiction, but there will always be a trace of magic dusted across the pages. After all, who wants to live in a world without fantasy?