“That does it,”Jace said.”I’m going to get you a dictionary for Christmas this year”
“Why” Isabelle said.
“So you can look up fun, I am not sure you know what it means.”—Cassandra Clare, City Of Ashes
I wish there was a Jace in my life; this conversation could have been between Jace and me instead of Isabella and Jace. More importantly it could have been real. The issue here was not fun, it was playtime. So off I go to type playtime so that I could know what it means. The dictionary says playtime a time to have fun or diversion.
Well, well, that would be reading.
Think about this a sensible person does not read a novel as a task. He reads it as a diversion. He is prepared to interest himself in the characters and is concerned to see they act in given circumstances and what happens to them. He sympathizes with their troubles and is gladdened by their joyous. He puts himself in their place and to an extent lives their lives. Their view of life their attitude to the great subjects of human speculation whether stated in words or shown in action, call forth in him a reaction of surprise of pleasure or indignation. But he knows instinctively where his interest lies and he follows it as surely as hound follows the scent of a fox. Sometimes through the author’s failure, he loses the scent. Then he flounders about till he finds it again. To read is precisely to enter another world which is not my own, and come back refreshed ready to bear with equanimity the injustices and frustrations of this one. Reading is the balm, amusement – not incitement.
Sometimes I choose t write because it’s perfect for me. It’s an escape, a place I can go to hide. It’s a friend when Ii feel out casted from everyone else. Its journal when the only story I can tell is my own. It’s a book when I need to be somewhere else. It’s control when I feel so out of control. It’s healing when everything seems so messed up. At the end of the day its fun, when life is just flat our boring.