Angieville

Once upon a time, January came for us and proclaimed itself supremely uninterested in taking prisoners. Under the sustained assault, there were simply too many avenues of stress tearing into my brain. On one side of the field stood so many books (as they have always been there for me) ready to be read—to help. And on the other side loomed a distressing number of chasms inside me desperate to find solace and reprieve. But the two could not meet. No matter how many peace talks I attempted to broker.  In February, in a move so unprecedented that I can only describe it as a lifeline thrown down into the deepest of the chasms, my exhausted mind decided it would be a good idea to finally give fanfiction a whirl. Now, there's no getting around the fact that for someone who has read as many novels that involve fic in some way or another as I have—seriously, novels that began as fic, novels written by authors who got their start writing fic, novels about characters who write/illustrate/love

I've had a number of conversations recently with friends and coworkers. They go something along the lines of "Remember in 2016, when we didn't know what was coming?" followed closely by "Remember in 2020, when we didn't know what was coming?" This shared and recurrent haunting that we seem to be collectively living is simultaneously comforting and unnerving. Which is, perhaps not coincidentally, also a fairly apt description of my adult life. The conversation I have been having primarily with myself this month has gone something along the lines of "Remember in January, when you didn't know what was coming?"  I am actually not all that given to vast quantities of rumination in December regarding how the year has gone. I tend to reserve those thoughts for my reading year, where they trend in the fundamentally happy and filled to the brim with gratitude direction. But this year was somewhat ferociously unique in that my life as a whole was we