Kathy Trithardt's Blog, page 7

Dear Bikram Yoga

Dear Bikram Yoga,

I was initially really excited to see you again after nearly three years of being apart. It was great to see you in a new city, with a great facility and an instructor that seemed really nice. However, it made me remember why we broke up in the first place.

I lied to myself enough times, saying that it had to do with not having enough time, since I was juggling school, work, and another relationship, that I fooled myself into thinking it was that simple. I fooled myself into thinking this time would be different, but it’s not.

I think it’s best of we don’t see each other intimately. It’s not you, it’s me. We are never getting back together.

When I’m with you, I feel weak. When we are apart, I am able to build my confidence and strength in other ways. Being with you reminds me that I have short bones with excess fat on them, and you make wrapping them around each other sound so easy. In reality, it isn’t something everyone can do, no matter how much you insist it is. I appreciate you pushing me, but you cannot put a square peg in a round hole. Not to mention, I’m always overdressed at these events, as I value modesty in myself, and am constantly flooded with “perfect” and “strong” bodies enough by the media; I don’t need to visit you to see them as well. I also don’t have time to constantly clean up our mess after we’ve been together. There is only so much laundry one woman can do.

The one bonus of the room being so hot is that I’m pretty sure no one could tell that the experience made me cry; my tears just mixed with my sweat.

The truth is that I need to move on, and there are better people suited to you than I. You just aren’t right for me, and that’s okay, Maybe we can still be friends, but I won’t be able to be around much.

I wish you all the best,

Kathy Trithardt

Reciprocity

(Author Note: I wrote this short story was originally part of the Quotidian Project, but people seemed to like it, so I thought I would share it here.)

The early morning emptiness of the streets made way for the thin breeze drifting up from the ocean. That cool sensation was welcome, as she knew it wouldn’t last for long. The sun was already well into its task of turning the black asphalt into a dangerous area. She silently wished that she had applied enough sunblock for the day.

She’d been looking forward to seeing him again. Unlike the heat of the Summer, their relationship had cooled over the past month, as space was taken and explored. Sometimes he explored his space with other people, an arrangement that she felt comfortable in, although she’d not found additional partners who interested her. They were each permitted to explore as many connects as each party wanted, with no fear of wrong-doing. People prone to labels slapped “open relationship” on this arrangement.

Some people didn’t understand their system, which made it hard to talk to incredulous people, or even answer seemingly simple questions, such as “are you seeing anyone?” If she tried to explain that yes, she was seeing someone, but was also free to see others, people immediately thought she was looking to cheat on her lover. Occasionally men thought she was playing a game, and were only attracted to the possibility of being “found out” by her “boyfriend,” as though his knowing would create a rivalry that the men wanted to win out of principle. They lost interest as soon as she mentioned that she told him everything. It was no longer a game of dominance and this made her less appealing.

On principle, this sorting system didn’t really bother her. She wasn’t interested in short-term connections primarily experienced during coitus. She craved a deeper connection, and if men were threatened by not being the only love or lust in her life, she knew that kinship wouldn’t last, nor would it be fulfilling.

They met at the waterfront, having planned to sprawl on the grass beneath a small tree to block the worst of the sun’s rays. He hugged her tight, and she molded to his body. She’d missed him.

“How are you?” he asked, settling onto a blanket she’d stowed in her bag.

“A lot of the same old,” she started, knowing the answer to this question wouldn’t have much originality. “Work, work, work, but things are good. I enjoy my down time as much as possible. You?”

She’d always found his ability to recount past time surpassed hers. He spoke of crushes and dates, both past and to come. It had become his mission to meet more people recently, and he was excited to be on track. She smiled, delighted by his passion. People were always skeptical when she said she was happy for him, but it was the truth.

They’d spoken of jealousy early in the process of being allies. Neither of them were strangers to the tugging sensation of a partner being pulled away, even though most jealous impulses were ultimately unfounded. A different connection does not sever theirs, and having a competition of hierarchy of importance in partners felt degrading. They agreed to speak up, address concerns whenever they felt insecure, and talk through those feelings. If only the people who judged their connection as immature knew the depths at which they discussed their feelings… but she didn’t feel the need to justify her lifestyle.

He’d finished recounting various interactions with girls who struck his fancy, and his gaze settled back to hers. Her skin always tingled slightly when his attention shifted from pouring his passion outward into the universe to directing his eyes at mine. His freedom of words always drew her in, and he could listen, and had listened, to him talk for hours.

She shifted slightly to kiss the lips that had just regaled her with tales of adventure. His question froze her midway.

“Are you satisfied with the amount of love in your life?” He had sunk back slightly, making a return to her pre-kiss position a much more comfortable trajectory than the path to his lips. She chided herself for momentarily forgetting his opposition to kissing in public; she’d gotten caught up and forgot that they weren’t in a more intimate setting.

“Of course,” she replied. She was.

“You know that if you find someone else who you feel drawn to, I want you to follow that, right?” His fingers picked at a loose thread in the blanket. He’d said this before, and she was well aware that she was free to love anyone she wanted.

“I do know that. I’ve known that since the beginning.” She was getting tired of feeling pushed. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t feel satisfied with the amount of love in my life?”

“It’s just that you never talk about seeing anyone else. It’s like you aren’t even trying.” His gaze was directed squarely at her now. He was firmly planted in a topic when he looked like this.

Her mind raced, but continuously stumbled. Is there a quota of love that I missed the memo on? Should I feel badly that I don’t have several admirers? What about my life screams that I should be unhappy with the amount of love in it? Does he have far less love for me than I thought?

Fragments of these thoughts twisted wildly in her mind, as tragic as trapeze artists missing their mark and plummeting without support from their partners.

She started slow. She needed to be very deliberate in order to focus her injured thoughts into communicable sentences. “Is there a competition about which I was not informed?” Her voice was quiet, but deep. Her eyes clasped a speck on his shoulder, knowing his eyes would make her voice waver.

“Well, no, but -”

She smacked her lips, inhaling quickly so she could continue. “Do you love me less than I have been led to believe?” This time her eyes caught his, and she could feel her chin shake microscopically. She was risking tears to search for the truth in his answer.

His eyes reflected her pain. “Of course not,” he said. He wasn’t lying.

“Please stop inferring that I am below the quota of people who love me, thus restricting me from being happy.” She held his eyes just long enough to ensure her point was made, and then rolled away. The maneuver was clumsy, but she was on her feet quickly. “I need to go for a walk. I’ll be back.”

She’d turned and was a considerable distance before she remembered to breathe. Her sunglasses shielded strangers from knowing she was crying, and she kept her head low.

She couldn’t have wagered a guess as to the duration of her trip if asked. She just walked until her legs protested; they wouldn’t be able to work off the boulder of hurt she was carrying in her chest. At some point she had wrapped around the waterfront, and plopped back down on her blanket behind him. Spooked, he turned and sighed upon seeing her.

“You were right,” he started. “And I’m not just saying that because I want you to stop being upset with me.”

“We have different priorities,” I stated.

“Exactly,” he replied. “I was wrapped up in how great I’ve felt recently, and was scared that I was keeping you from feeling the same.”

“We don’t stand in each other’s way,” she said, rubbing at her eyes beneath the sun glasses. She knew her eyes would likely be red, but the glasses made her vision too dark in the shade. She pushed them onto her head and rubbed her face once more before her hand fell back down to her lap.

Her put tentative fingertips on her knee. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We are alike in so many ways and I just wanted you to be happy.”

She gripped his fingers tightly. “We have differences. Sometimes I remind you of how meek you used to be before we got together. I think you misinterpreted my inaction as being at a standstill – as though our relationship has put me in a cage. The biggest difference here is I am happy, whereas you were miserable when you felt trapped. I’m not trapped. And I don’t need to prove my freedom by making connections with other people.”

His eyes clouded over in thought. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked.

“Showing me my ‘good intention’ was full of shit.” He giggled tentatively, unsure if he was being distasteful by expressing vague amusement. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied, tucking into a ball at his side. “I’m here for the adventure – good parts and bad – for as long as we both want the journey.”

[Introvert Series] Think First, Talk Later (Maybe)

As an introvert, I constantly find myself wandering down differing paths of potential conversation – but (un)luckily for those around me, these intriguing diversions are only inside my head. I am an attentive listener, but I have this factory churning out thoughts in the background, and it has become an automated process while my brain manages the intake of information. The factory considers possible connections or stories I could tell in relation to yours, but if there are too many people in the group, I rarely open my mouth. There is too much to take in. There is too much to learn. Putting my own experiences into words with which I am satisfied takes time, which is not always ample in group conversations.

I’ve become so absorbed with listening to what others have to say that when someone asks me, “what do you think about that?” my mental factory grinds to a halt. It takes a long time to switch gears between observing/cataloguing to creating verbal output. It isn’t very often that someone has the patience to wait during this process, group setting or not. I do have a really great person who supports me when I do this, but it is not something that would suit a group setting; instead of one person waiting for me to come up with intelligent feedback, I’d be weighted down by multiple sets of eyes, potential exasperated sighs, and more than likely “my time” would be up before I could bring myself to say what I want with the eloquence it deserves.

When asked something to which I don’t know the immediate, short answer, I need time to think it over, then give my verbal response (maybe; sometimes I keep it to myself, or write about it instead). I don’t talk just for the sake of talking; when I talk, I am trying to express something specific. I may need to write down a specific thought I have and flesh it out when I have more capacity for tending to my own thoughts, as I default to listening to those around me. I feel rude when I do this (no, I’m not texting, I’m using the Memo Pad on my phone so I don’t forget this thing I want to explore).

This can be frustrating. I have certainly felt other people get upset with the amount of time and space I need to produce a seemingly simple answer. It is rarely simple; this world is complex, and although I am more than willing to concede that I don’t know much on the grand scale of things, I want what I do put forth to not just be the product of a time crunch. If I speak too soon, I end up doing a lot of clarifying. I want to do all of that work ahead of time, so my thought product is easier to understand, instead of letting others sit through my entire thought process.

Goodreads Giveaway!

I am doing another Giveaway, since the last winner seemed to enjoy her prize! I will send a signed copy to whoever Goodreads draws next month!

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...

Support Local Book Stores.

Hello all,

Just in case I have any fans who are too far away to get a copy of my novel directly from me, or don't want to use Amazon... your local book store should be able to order it in. You might need the following information, but they should be able to look it up:
Title: The Andy Project
Author: Kathy Trithardt
ISBN-10: 1494831074
ISBN-13: 978-1494831073
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing

Give it a try and let me know how it goes.

[Introvert Series] Guilt

I’m writing this post to stop myself from making vegan cherry ice cream at 9 o’clock in the morning. I froze all the ingredients yesterday around noon, hoping they’d be ready by the evening, but they weren’t, so I’m making it today. The reason I am distracting myself with writing is because I don’t want to be a cliché. I want to eat that ice cream in joy, not in sadness. My neighbours probably don’t want to hear my really loud food processor this early, either.

Usually, a little isolation is exactly what an introvert needs; however, we still like seeing our friends. I was supposed to attend a potluck yesterday, which my friend holds monthly, but as time grew closer, I freaked out. I didn’t know how many unknown people would be there. I didn’t know if there would be anything I could eat (I’m vegan and have some really strange allergies). I wasn’t confident in my own culinary skills (I made a huge batch of dip from chickpeas, black beans, garlic, lemon juice, salsa and a hint of mustard, but I don’t think the beans soaked long enough, so it didn’t have a great texture). I let my friend know I might not be coming.

She completely understands introversion, and even offered that I could come without bringing a dish (since I also cited my lack of faith in what I was creating). Why didn’t I go? Logically, that back yard can only hold so many people. Logically, I know a lot of her friends, and they are nice. Logically, given the demographics of our city and her friend base, there must be other people bringing items that I would be more than happy to eat.

Unfortunately, logic goes out the window when I start to get an introversion-related anxiety attack. I forced myself to shower, and to prepare the food I had set aside that morning, but I never made it back out of the pajamas I wear around my house, and the weird dip is in my fridge (I was hoping an overnight to sit would help it out; I also need so purchase some tortilla chips with which to eat it).

I didn’t want to sit in the guilt of not attending the event my friend lovingly invited me to, so I continued to binge through episodes of the fourth season of “Pretty Little Liars” on Netflix. I worried about their much more serious problems for a while, but this reflection only serves to down play what I was experiencing. Their problems are fictitious, whereas mine are real.

I feel angry at myself for not making it out of my pajamas. I feel angry that I didn’t go purchase a back up plan of an offering and attend the potluck, or that I didn’t accept the invitation to just bring myself.

And now I feel alone. I sure felt it last night, after I decided I’d had my fill in Rosewood. I felt it while eating the sushi I ordered to replace my meal plans for the evening. I felt it when I turned in for the night, not even 11 o’clock. Sure, I’d done some productive things that morning, but those activities were followed by eleven episodes of fiction about friends who always stick together.

I feel guilty that I am the only one to blame for being alone. As much as I value alone time, and conversations in small groups, sometimes it can be too much, especially when I am feeling the guilt of not being somewhere I had wanted to be, or not doing something I want to do. I didn’t write at all yesterday and beyond resting, writing was the second reason I wanted a week off work. I feel like I am wasting my time, wasting my potential, and that I might as well have just worked because then I would at least have had some use.

I hadn’t planned this topic for the series, but I am glad that I was able to identify that it was happening and get the words out. I’m sorry for all the social gatherings I miss. I’m sorry that my anxiety sometimes makes me feel powerless. I am sorry that I fear that I am unable to find balance between resting and laziness. I’m sorry that I am alone right now.

Hank Green and the Perfect Strangers Concerts

This weekend was full of Nerdfighter activities.

When Hank Green announced that he was doing a show in Seattle, I pretty much immediately decided I wanted to go, and asked my group of Facebook friends is anyone wanted to come along. Seattle is not very far from Victoria as the crow flies, but there are differing methods of getting there, and a lot of them take a lot of time. The other alternative is the Clipper, which goes from downtown to downtown in about 3 hours, but is very expensive. I got a bonus at work a couple months ago, so I splurged.

Brie, my writing partner over at The Quotidian Project, was very emphatic about attending the concert with me, so tickets were purchased immediately. When I happened to find out a few weeks later that a second show was added, I really wanted to go to that one, too. I asked her if we were the kind of nerds that go to both shows; I was delighted when she agreed that we were (I already knew I was, but didn’t want to go to the second one by myself is she was just going to wander Seattle in an abandoned manner).

Tickets books, we found a hostel a couple weeks before going, and booked the Clipper. I made sure to go to bed early the night before, as using the Clipper is something I get nervous about, as the last time I was supposed to use it, the water was too wavy and we had to take the 10 hour alternative route. We did not have time for that – we’d miss the first concert. I wanted to make sure I did everything within my power (since weather is not in my power) to get to the Clipper with plenty of time, and ensure things ran smoothly. Brie joined me, we boarded without too many issues (Brie almost left her comfy sweater in the waiting room before Customs), and we were on our way. We sat with a nice woman named Jenni who was from Alaska, and chatted about our travels, work, and lives for the duration of the trip. We exchanged information before parting ways in Seattle, which reminds me that I need to add her as a friend on Facebook.

Navigating to the places we needed to find in Seattle was amazingly easy. The hostel was about a twently minute walk from Pier 69, and the The Crocodile (the venue for the shows) was about ten from their, but we meandered, recognizing that we would need to eat before arriving, as we’d be at the venue for a very long time (waiting in line time, as well as two concerts). At random, we stopped at what turned out to be the only pub I had ever been to in Seattle before (on a trip for a previous employer back in 2008).

We arrived an hour and a half before the doors opened, but were definitely not the first in line. It was mind-blowingly awesome to see so many Nerdfighters in one place – especially when I started recognizing Pizza John shirts, TFiOS themed bags/shirts, a stuffed Hanklerfish, and tons of other DFTBA related clothing. As Brie and I were chatting, two girls behind us politely interupted and asked, “Are you from Canada?” Upon finding out that we were, they explaimed “We are, too!” As we were getting to know them, the three girls in line behind them politely interupted: “Excuse me, are you guys from Canada? We are, too!”

Out of the 10-20 Canadians in the crowd for the first show, 7 happened to line up together, and we found an eighth (and his folks) standing near us during the show. Jokes.

The information we had received about the show only mentioned one opening act, but there were three: Rob Scallon, whose music was fantastically beautiful and a treat to see live, Andrew Huang (songstowearpantsto), a talented comedy song writer from Toronto, and Driftless Pony Club, a group that has been together for longer than some of the audience members had been alive (about 15 years). I was able to give Rob a brief congratulations of his opening act at some point during the evening, chatted with Andrew for a while, got a picture with him and got him to sign a CD, and Brie and I both got a hug from Sam of Driftless Pony Club when we told him during the second show that we loved the first show.

While on a Merch Recon Mission during a break in the first show, I also met Matthew Gaydos, who seemed surprised yet delighted when I glanced at him (he happened to be beside me) and said, “Hey, you’re Matthew Gaydos. I really like your videos.” I got a picture with him as well. He was wearing the shark shirt in the video I linked.

Hank’s set with the ever revolving Perfect Strangers (the basist was at a wedding, so they had taught friends a couple songs each, and they kept switching around) was fantastic. The crowd sort of messed him up a little by singing the alternative explicit lyrics to “I Love Science” (I have a further story about that in a bit). He uses up an incredible amount of energy – at some points he takes breaks, and sits of lays down on the floor. He got Andrew to introduce the story behind “Hug Scream” so he could sit and listen. In short, the show was fabulous.

We also spotted The Katherine in the crowd and at the merch table a few times, but didn’t find a non-strange way of saying hello to her.

I purchased Incongruent, and we found Hank in the alley out back, doing a signing line. He signed my album, gave each of us a hug, and took a picture with us. I then offered him a signed copy of The Andy Project, explaining that Nerdfighteria has been a big part of helping me build my creativity, and I might not have written it without that community support. He accepted, and I scrawled to following on the title page:

Dear Hank,

DFTBA!

Kathy Trithardt

…. And then we joined the line for the second show.

We decided to try to get a place on the little balcony for the second show, but all the places where you could actually see the stage were taken by the time they let us back in, so we ended up standing on the other side of the stage from where we were in the first show. The musicians had been treated with donuts and whiskey back stage, from someone in the audience, which must have helped keep the energy up for the second show (Brie and I calculated that we spent over 8 hours standing in or around that building before we wandered back to the hostel at 2am).

This side of the stage was further away from the open door to the smoke pit, so I went in search of water during Andrew’s act. This is when I encountered Hank for the second time. We talked about how this was the first time that people sang the explicit lyrics back at him during the show, slightly throwing him off, and how even though he would love to just sign that version during the second show, the venue does not want him to (it was also an all ages show, so there was a 5 year old on the shoulders of one man). He was tired, but in good spirits, and then had to excuse himself to pee before his set. He explained when he was back on stage that he had to pee three times before the show, because he still gets nervous. I find this guy very endearing, and can completely understand given my introversion.

Brie bought the tour poster (which is gorgeous) after the second show and we made our way back to the hostel. Only a few hours a sleep later, we were up, eating a first breakfast, then a second (there was not much Brie could eat at the free hostel breakfast, and then not much I could eat at the cafe we found after wandering around the quiet streets of Seattle). We took another wander through the mostly closed Pike Place Market, which was peaceful due to it not being entirely open yet, and then spent a very nerdy chunk of time at the Experience Music Project (sci-fi, fantasy, horror and music nerds – put this on your bucket list) before boarding the Clipper and attempting to nap on the way home.

(Fun fact: part way through this entry, my keyboard switched to French, and I think I have to restart my computer to switch it back. This caused me to be unable to use quotes or apostrophies. I might attempt to go back and edit them in after the reboot, but I might just leave the post alone. I have my Quotidian post to do, as today is my day, so I have more writing ahead of me.)

Heads Up – New Project

Hey everyone,

Remember that new project I told you I would be starting soon? It starts tomorrow! My first post will kick off July 1st, and then Brie and I are alternating writing days every weekday (minus holidays) for a year!

It is called the Quotidian Project. You can learn more about it here. I encourage everyone to read along, and leave comments and suggestions (to keep things fun).

 

Introvert Series

Hello all!

Inspiration is a tricky thing, and it has been eluding me recently. While I’ve been thinking about what to write, I have been distracting myself with a new project regarding Introversion. I have a few topics on the go, and have been popping in and out of those documents, dropping comments and thoughts on each subject, and hope to start rolling this series out on this blog in the near future.

Additionally, my lovely friend Brie and I are collaborating on a new project, which should be live soon – we just have to sort out some details before we officially announce it and put it live. You might remember Brie from the Meet in the Middle assignment.

In closing, if you have any items/topics you would like to see me cover in my Introvert Series, please let me know. If you have any creative writing ideas, leave them in comments, because sooner or later I am going to find something to spark a new story, blog post, or poem – and right now I am just taking in as much information as possible so I have a higher likelihood of finding something with which to run.

On Fiction: Edited

[Author's Note: My first entry on this blog was On Fiction. I am now looking at it, just less than a year later, and editing the crap out of it, because I fear reading my own work, editing, and that my writing is bad. Italic is what I originally wrote, regular text is what I am writing now, and I assure you that there will be some strikesthroughs even though I loved how I was writing at the time.]

My one true love is fiction, and my arch-enemy is editing.

No matter where I am in my life, if I have some piece of fiction at my disposal, I will be all right. It doesn’t matter if it is a written or visual package of fiction – as long as the characters are endearing or compelling, and I am able to care able whatever is happening in the moments the author chose to record, I am immediately enriched. Fiction makes me feel happy and safe. The act of consuming fiction engulfs me; waves of safety, tenderness and care wash over me; the lights go down at a venue and the stage play makes me forget the terror of wading through the audience. There are stories I can revisit time and time again, and characters that I know would be lifelong friends if our circumstances were different; if they came into my life as people in my reality, we would be there to support one another, laugh in the best of times and weep during the worst. Escaping to this fictional world brings me comfort.

I have some people akin to my favourite fictional characters in my life, but instead of focusing on how that sensation seems to lead itself to the idea of “few and far between,” I tend to realize that my habit of moving around has made it so that I am constantly separated from people in my life who are extremely dear to me. I know some amazing people in real life, and wish sometimes that we fictional friends were wrapped into one piece of fiction this lifetime so that I might interact with them more often, but even if that were to happen, I am sure that we would live on a fictional map of an extremely large size, so that side plots could be carried out in different locations so they wouldn’t have to be in the direct consciousness and influence of every awesome person I know. this take on life would inevitable become rather complicated.

Perhaps this complete infatuation with fiction explains why I haven’t been able to have a relationship in which my complete devotion and love is returned in equal proportions. Until rather recently, I have led my life believing that everyone has a love of their life that exists in human form that can be everything they need to each other. I have tried to be that for a couple of men who either took advantage of my naivety or simply needed something other than what I could provide. It took me a very long time to realize that it wasn’t a matter of me not being enough for these men; I just wasn’t exactly what they needed.

To be more concise, although I cannot control the outcomes of relationships, be they in fiction or real life, I can revisit fiction more comfortably than the pains of my personal past. There are structures to reliving roles with fictional characters – one example being a novel, which can be read over and over again.

Although I might fall in love with another man at some point in my life (I like to think it can happen again, so as to not close myself off from a new exploration of romantic love), am in love with another real life human, my bond with fiction will always remain fierce. I might find a person who wants all the usual relationship dynamics, but I am quite all right and not at all heartbroken by the notion that this might not be where life will lead me. I don’t need romantical comedies to force the patriarchy ideal upon me, as I don’t need to seek that out to be happy in love. The stories I read or watch enrich my understanding of life and I feel as though my appreciation for them brings them a step above whatever the author created in his or her own mind. Although I definitely appreciate the authors of my favourite fiction as people, it is not in them that I place my love; stories belong to the readers, and although there would be no story without the author, the story is locked in darkness behind closed doors until it is brought to realization through the mind of opened by the reader.

Don’t misread my words and think that I am waiting for some fictitious knight in shining armour, or suited man in a time machine (wow, a Doctor Who reference this early, and I still haven’t even gotten into watching that show), to whisk into my life, change it forever, and toss me into a real world a life the likes of which our reality has never seen. That is not why I love fiction. I don’t dote on it in the hopes that something that lives only in the imagination will spring forth in my life, and I don’t lament that my prince still hasn’t arrived (because a prince is not a necessity) . I used to think that it was the natural course of life to fall in love and follow the usual steps of adulthood as a partnership culturally approved norm of marriage. It turns out that not every life goes that way, no matter how hard one tries to live an idealized life based on the “expectations” we are taught. Existence is much more interesting when you cast aside preconceived notions of what it should be and live your life how you see fit. As long as you are kind to others, explore what you enjoy, and don’t put others down for doing the same, life can be a complete thrill.

That being said, sometimes life crashes into periods of disappointment or sorrow, either in regards to outside elements or internal issues, and this is where fiction has bonded with my heart. Fiction allows me to escape the exact moment I am in and explore a different moment in time and space. It doesn’t matter that the fictional moment is not always better than my real life situation – I delight in absorbing what it is like to live in all sorts of situations that would be classified as “shit times” without having to actually contract the disease, be mentally distressed, or have the villain capture or abuse me. It is just the fact that someone A character I have grown to know through prose, dialogue, facial expressions or body language is going through something that I can comprehend and relate to; that pulls me in and takes me on an adventure. I’ve wept with, or for, characters who have been wronged or who deserved better, and my heart has jumped joyously with those characters who have achieved more than they could ever dream.

Fictional also allows me to explore a poly-amorous side of myself that does not exist in the real world. My soul has yet to allow physical relations with more than one other human being without a feeling of doing harm, guilt, shame or not being an outstanding friend/lover. With fiction, I do no harm in loving several characters throughout a television series, throughout a stage production, throughout a novel, or throughout a movie. In fact, my love for each of those characters is not diminished in the slightest by my love for every other character or plot line that takes hold of my heart. I’ve never felt need to engage physically with more than one person at a time in my life, but I feel a wild sensation and absolutely no guilt in consuming stories, and the souls within them.

Fiction also has this incredible power of bringing people closer together. Upon finding out someone else has read/seen the same thing that you are crazy about, and that they found enjoyment in that fiction, an intense connection can be formed while discussing fine details and character behaviours. Fiction nourishes me when I am alone and brings me into the lives of other fantastic people. Fiction brings means of discussion, self-reflection and heightened emotions. Fiction, no matter the form, is an art that wraps me up, and keeps me feeling secure and grounded, even when the situations aren’t always safe. Creation of other worlds, people and situations, and my subsequent enjoyment of these elements is something by which I am very proud to be delighted.

[Author's end note: This is not a perfect edit. I don't know that perfection is something that can be obtained. I do notice that my sentences can be rather long. I will try to vary that. I just want everything to be clear. Items left unclear are up for reader debate.]