For the last six months I have been taking a Creative Writing course at Monroe Community College. I have been reading non-fiction, literary short stories and poetry. On my own I read The Help by Kathryn Stockett – a wonderful summer read – and a book a friend recommended. (Twice I tried to finish it. Twice I failed. She is still a friend, but is no longer allowed to make recommendations to my reading list.)
There were numerous handouts and assignments in the assigned text – Metro, Journey’s In Writing Creativity. The point is, I had not been the Captain of my reading list in a very long time.
Last week, with ten poems ready for submission, I picked up The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.
What I found shocking was the physical reaction I had within the first ten pages.
I can only describe it as how I felt on a Thanksgiving leave from the Navy. I was sitting in the living room, my dad in “his” chair, my nephew playing with Match Box cars on the floor. Mom was in the kitchen whipping up a feast and the smells where overwhelming me.
The feeling of being home is a physical thing as well as emotional. Fantasy is my home.