I've always found it easier in a library to wander towards the fiction isles. Bright books with winding stories of romance and adventure intrigued me starting at a young age. It was too boring to read the honest stories about people's lives, no matter how spectacular the person.
Why would I learn about Theodore Roosevelt's rise to power if I could read about Dragons that loved humans? What's the point in following the story of the mightiest river in the united states if just seven books away I could fall in love with Merlin and hear about his struggles?
So here I sit, in a library at a college campus. I'm taking as many notes as I can about the past month of my life, and nothing has been made up. It's all real, the layers of sweat, bug repellant, and sunscreen. I don't have wings to take me the 40 miles a day I aim for. I don't have a sweet romanic man that is waiting for my letters. I have real, honest people that I have met that want to hear about my progress. What used to be stories that come out of my mouth are reality, and I'm madly in love with every word.
I now want to sit in a library and read biographies and histories about those who struggled to help change the world. There is no embarrassment in wanting to escape for a few days to a different land. The fanciful places that used to be my everything still exist in my mind, and I hope they never leave. I still need a shire to see beauty in a skyscraper. There's no shame in gazing into a barn, wondering if the farmboy would become a pirate in hopes of finding his lost love.
So I tell myself to keep writing, and let this adventure become what it will. Maybe one day it will sit on a shelf and help someone out of their comfort zone and into the wild world that's full of amazing people and beautiful stories.
Travel on.
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