A few weeks ago, I suffered a devastating loss. I lost the files for my Kingsmill Courtships story bible due to… I honestly don’t know what happened. I just woke up one day and found the files corrupted. Six years of work disappeared overnight, and I’ve been scrambling to find old files and notes so I can get back to writing. Anyway, as I’ve been rebuilding my story bible for my Kingsmill Courtships series on a new software platform, I’ve spent weeks wandering through a tiny town deep in the Shenandoah Mountains that doesn’t actually exist.
A Place Where We Belong
I’ve been cataloging local traditions, community events, family histories, holiday celebrations, and all the small details that make Kingsmill feel alive. Pumpkin carving contests in the town square. Summer picnics by the river. Tubing on hot July afternoons. Christmas parades with homemade floats. Sunflower festivals. Church suppers. Fall bonfires.
The more details I add, the more I find myself wishing I could live there. Which is a slightly ridiculous thing to admit, considering I invented the place. And yet I suspect I’m not alone. Readers and writers have always fallen in love with fictional worlds. We want to stroll through Avonlea. We want to attend classes at Hogwarts. We want to visit Narnia through the wardrobe. We want to drink coffee in Stars Hollow or spend Christmas in Virgin River.
Why? Because these places offer something that often feels rare in modern life. Belonging.
Most beloved fictional settings aren’t perfect. They have conflicts, misunderstandings, heartbreak, and plenty of eccentric personalities. But beneath the drama is something many of us crave: the certainty that we are part of a community. Someone knows our name. Someone notices when we’re missing. Someone remembers our history. Someone shows up when things fall apart.
In many ways, fictional settings become emotional homes. They represent a version of life where people are connected to one another through shared traditions, common stories, and a sense of place. Think about how many beloved fictional worlds revolve around recurring rituals like harvest festivals, the annual barn dance, a Christmas parade, the Fourth of July picnic, a local fair, and family gatherings.
These events matter because they create continuity. They remind us that life isn’t only about productivity and deadlines. It’s also about seasons, celebrations, and shared experiences. Perhaps that’s why so many readers return to favorite books again and again. They’re not simply revisiting characters. They’re returning to a place where they felt safe, understood, and connected.
As writers, I think we’re often trying to create the kinds of communities we long for ourselves. Not because we’re dissatisfied with our real lives. But because stories allow us to explore our deepest hopes. What if people forgave one another more easily? What if neighbors showed up when they were needed? What if generations remained connected? What if traditions still mattered? What if home wasn’t just a house but a network of relationships?
Those questions often live beneath the surface of the stories we tell. As I’ve rebuilt Kingsmill’s story bible, I’ve realized that the town itself has become one of my favorite characters. It’s not just a backdrop for romance. It’s a place where people heal, reconnect, and discover who they are.
Maybe that’s why I sometimes wish I could visit. Not because the town is perfect. But because it reminds me of something true. We are all looking for a place to belong. The best fictional worlds don’t help us escape reality. They help us remember what we’re searching for within it.
