Always seek mystery.

Nah, I wouldn’t advise that. Although I confess my library jaunts result in stacks of books with dangerous and creepy names.

My spouse shudders as he reads them.

Death by Coffee.

A Murderer’s Manifesto.

Chocolate killed something, or, the Puffins flew into the beachhouse to blow up in a book by a famous author.

“This is why you have nightmares,” he says, stacking the books up on my overloaded Ikea 2 x 4.

“Not really,” I say. If I have a good cozy mystery, I actually relax. There’s always some bumbling professional woman who trips her way into solving a crime. It’s reassuring, because you can be clutzy and clueless, but look great in jeans, barge into a police investigation, ask pointed questions, and have at least two sexy men fighting over you or at least you have choices. Just look at Stephanie Plum.

Why, her hamster somehow survives years and years of firebombing and break-ins and blown-up cars. And Stephanie, eternally, continues to have the ability to feast on donuts, chase criminals, and have toe-curling sex with at least one of the two arguably attractive men she has somehow attracted with her ditzy hair-sprayed bangs. Stephanie must be an 80s girl.

All I know is some people love spaceships and aliens in their books. Not me. My “fantasy” novels are just that: an improbable female character, just trying to live her life, stumbles through it, solves crimes, finds hot and interesting men who find her back, and survives, survives, survives. 

It might be called “Killed by a Cupcake”  but really, this is a book about hope, baking, and solving crime. And I can experience all the cupcakes along with the main character. The same main character who somehow never gets fat or wrinkly or arthritic. Never seems to want to stay in bed under the covers all day–at least, not alone.

This is fiction. This is fantasy. It’s no mystery why I read these books. They give me hope. So I keep reading. Even if nothing changes–except me. A little fatter, more arthritic, wrinkly. A little less interested in getting out of bed when I’m supposed to. I’m changing.

The books are not.

They’re a haven. A place to rest while there’s a storm outside. 

A place to rest, especially after watching the trench wars. The quakes. The bombings. The fires. The protests of the people demanding truth.

Oh wait, that’s something I want to see. I’m begging to see. The truth. And people who demand it.

I don’t need truth in my books. They’re for resting. A brain bon bon. A chocolate moment. I’ll take my mysteries and see you tomorrow. I’ll be feeling much better then.

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