I read to escape.
Real life is messy. Real life is people dying, kids getting drug addicted, mom’s getting depressed, dad’s losing jobs, and lots of other messy, uncomfortable things.
I read to escape the reality for just a while.
I want to see things tied up into a tight little bow, all loose ends cleared up, everyone living happily ever after.
I want the fantasy of good things happening to good people and the bad guys get what they deserve.
I want someone who struggles with life circumstances rising above, developing a good circle of friends who support her when her life goes to shit and she eventually overcomes that last horrible thing.
What I don’t want… is to have the main character die. I don’t want the story to reflect real life. I don’t want a child to grow up without a mother. A father to grieve the loss of his life partner, friends to try to figure out how to adjust to the huge hole in their circle.
And I don’t want to read this just before I go to bed and have to try to manage the grief that overwhelms me.
I don’t want to have to try to explain to the man who loves me how a book that I read threw me in a tailspin of grief.
I read to escape. Last night I didn’t expect to escape into a piece of my own life.