I discovered my magical ability to step into written worlds when I was young and reading my first book. You could probably imagine my mother’s distress when child-me vanished on more than one occasion. Yet I’d always returned home, as a book is temporarily magically rewritten upon entering its universe to reflect my own story.

Even so, my mother did not approve. She possessed an uncanny sense of smell that assisted her in finding (and burning) every book I snuck into the house. Whenever we passed the library or bookstore, she shielded my eyes and hurried me along as if it were a shop for naughty adults.

Needless to say, I was not a happy child, and the next book I managed to get my little hands on was my last read in that world. I haven’t returned since, and I am too many universes away to do so, even if I wanted to (and I most certainly do not—sorry, Mom).

When I started rereading books, I dare played more of an active role and changed things to see how the stories would unfold differently, and the books were rewritten accordingly. That was when I learned the term for my magical ability, “pagewalking,” as I was approached by the Pagewalkers Collective. There were rules to follow and laws to respect, and I’d unknowingly committed the crime of tampering with the actual source material.

Luckily, the stories I’d altered were fixed by more experienced pagewalkers, and my sentence was schooling. So, here I am, visiting other worlds and reporting my experiences and findings—and resisting the temptation to change a thing or two.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction itself. I cannot actually visit other worlds!