Emily read me something that said most readers are more interested in adventure than intellectual pursuits. As a reader, I’d have to say that sounds about right. Readers know that the world is there for the taking, line by line, illuminated for any and all who care to see. The mind is an amazing thing. I have seen so many places, met so many people, all in the miracle of an imagination. When I’m having a difficult time, as I am now, that’s my therapy. Books remind me of the people around me, situations more difficult than mine, life being lived all the time. Sometimes, though, they make me sad. In books, I can be a wolf and run with a pack. I can fly or swim, as needed. I fight for my life, love often, cry even more. I live and die.
And then I look up. The world that I left is the same. But I’m just a little bit different. I howled out the window, on my way home late at night. I make shadow puppets of giant monsters on my wall. If I could trade my life for a place in a book, I would, and gladly.
Alas, that’s not an option. I am left with only my stories. Maybe it’s not a healthy approach to life. Maybe it is. The question is moot because I refuse to quit. I sometimes wonder how anyone can funtion without that outlet. It’s like vacationing from yourself. But on nights like tonight, when I have to make myself interact with people while my only thought is getting back to the story, I wonder if my fixation is counter productive. In the quest for adventure, I spend entirely too much time alone.
The alternative-being around people- is fraught with danger. Not usually physical danger, but emotional. For them and for me, really. Sometimes it seems like we all just crash into each other. There are so many times we disappoint or irritate one another. Hurt each other, even with just indifference. And even the high points can hardly compete with fiction, where the endings are always happy.