I am re-reading one of my favorite books, Paul Bowles, “The Sheltering Sky”. Sometimes what I found revelatory as an adolescent (books, movies, music) underwhelms several decades later. But “The Sheltering Sky” has lost nothing.

Let me quote one of my favorite passages:

“You know,” said Port, and his voice sounded unreal, as voices are likely to do after a long pause in an utterly silent spot, “the sky here’s very strange'“. I often have the the sensation when I look at it that it’s a solid thing up there, protecting us from what’s behind.”

Kit shuddered slightly as she said: “From what’s behind?”

“Yes.”

“But what is behind?” Her voice was very small.

I frequently (especially in the past three years) hear people profess that they only want to read escapist fiction. No dystopias for them. The real world is difficult and scary. They want their imaginary world to be all fairy princesses and rom coms, or dragons or unicorns or sword fights. They want endings that tie up neatly in an eminently predictable box.

Well, everyone’s entitled to their taste. But sanitized entertainment is not mine. Trouble is, I feel like Port a lot of the time. I’m always contemplating that darkness and mystery behind the azure blue sky. It’s fascinating and terrifying at the same time. Knowing that its there makes it discomfiting to pretend that it is not. This makes for the uncomfortable themes in my writing as well as my spunky if sometimes misguided protagonists. I don’t want to evoke ugliness or despair—THAT you get enough of in the “real” world. But by facing down fears or demons in a fictional way, by peeking behind that sheltering sky, I gain some measure of agency, some measure of control.

And believe it or not, that’s relaxing.