A bastard mindworm has long since laid claim to the chambers of my happy place. It speaks but one mantra, short and sweet: ‘But what’s the point?’
Every. Single. Time I open a book I have to fight with the urge to throw it out the window and get to more productive enterprise. The house needs cleaned. The convention site needs updating. Emails need sent. Finish your f*cking novel, sloth. I have to push forward, despise reading for five to ten minutes before slipping into dreamway rush hour and drowning out the world.
But oh. Oh, it’s so worth it. Something shifts in my everyday when I battle well with mundanity. The flat expanse of cloud begs entry, comes into focus like a cinematic fadein. It’s the craziest thing-like I really am hallucinating, staring into a sky full of stars in the middle of the day.
I’ll never stop trying. I want to wonder at the faeries piloting Boca’s stray dragonflies, and to try and decipher dystopian encoding in the vulture tornado behind Publix. The front yard, the car, the boca moms talking about pedicures in the waiting room; it’s all fodder for fantasy, so long as I’m reading. Every day I surprise myself, passing through the portal seamlessly and without intention, so long as I’m reading. Books are drugs, better than any drug there is.
I’m STILL on Jacqueline Carey, because there aren’t enough hours in the day. It could be the best book ever written. I’ll never say it, of course, for my unadulterated devotion to circa’93 Christopher Pike. (I love you, Christopher Pike.)
Meet Ms. Carey at SF:SE 2015. I can’t wait.