6.43am

I can’t believe I slept through your messages pinging. Usually I can’t sleep through anything, even if anything is nothing at all. But I woke up refreshed—more than I’ve been in a while. So I’m going to reward myself by answering right away:

I never thought of it that way. About that question revealing even more about me, because I never go anywhere. But now I’m wondering if that’s why I didn’t answer, before sending you the question. Like there’s a block in my mind, even when we’re just talking fantasy destinations. Even pretend plane journeys make me panic, apparently.

Either that, or I’m embarrassed.

You said such sophisticated, grown-up places.

And all I want to do is slip through the back of a wardrobe and into Narnia. Or climb a faraway tree and find revolving worlds up there. Or wash up in Oz in the middle of the desert that turns you to stone. Or ask the goblin king to take me away to the labyrinth right now.

Those are the places I would go if I could. Other worlds, vast and terrible and beautiful and weird. Places where magic is real, because oh I get so tired of all this relentless mundanity.

Not even just relentless, really—violent mundanity.

The kind that asserts itself aggressively, just as you think everything is going to be amazing. You buy that perfect dress and then catch yourself in a shop window, looking dull and lumpy and grey. The success you had turns into a grind; the beautiful flat you bought becomes a prison.

The ceiling leaks. The neighbours hate you.

Whatever future you imagined is now a long-distant memory.

I’d brave dragons in Earthsea to be away from all of that.

Is that so crazy? I think it might be crazy.

Let’s talk about something less crazy, like books.

Top five books.

8.27am

Don’t be embarrassed. Hell, I’m kind of embarrassed now, since you asked where I’d go if I could go anywhere and I wasn’t creative enough to think of made-up places.

If I had occasion to kidnap you, I’d take you places that make Earth seem magical. Like lava tube caves, or to the desert at sunset, or to that Icelandic lakeside under the Northern Lights … as long as you’re prepared to deal with my drunken weeping.

I can’t take you to Narnia, but there’s places here that are still pretty amazing. Bonus: you’re less likely to get eaten or turned to stone here in the real world.

I’m further embarrassed to tell you about my favorite books, because you clearly know what you’re talking about, and for the past decade or more I’ve typically read whatever’s popular—but not TOO popular, mind, because hipster cred. Basically, whatever book I thought might convince an interesting woman to sleep with me, should she spot me holding it in a coffee shop.

But that doesn’t say anything about me, does it? Apart perhaps from my prurient applications of conspicuous literacy. It doesn’t tell you anything of substance, to be sure, nothing worth knowing about me, and I think that’s what you’re after.

So let’s see … what books would I actually want with me on that desert island, where there are no witnesses?

Let’s just get this out there right off the bat—my favorite book is probably Jurassic Park. I’m not saying it’s the best book ever written, but it’s the one I’ve read more than any other, discounting the books from my childhood. (I read Hatchet about a hundred times, and White Fang maybe twice that.)

To make matters worse, let’s stick another Crichton on the list—Andromeda Strain.

Okay, I think I need to muster some variety, here. Let’s see, number three… Oh, I’ve liked a lot of Chuck Palahniuk’s books. Especially Choke. There might be some outdated hipster posing mixed in there, but I do genuinely like his storytelling.

Number four. How about Life of Pi? I picked that up in a Barnes and Noble when I was about twenty-five, thinking I’d peek at the first page, and then wound up reading the entire thing without ever leaving the store. That’d never happened to me before and hasn’t since, but I do hope it happens again someday. I drank about five coffees over the course of the afternoon and, unable to put it down, read some of the book while peeing in the store bathroom. For that reason, ethics compelled me to purchase the copy.

And number five, I’m thinking maybe something nostalgic. Let’s go with Holes. I fucking LOVED Holes. I’ll totally be giving that to the boy when he’s old enough.

Wait a second, that’s so lame—I don’t have a single book written by a woman. Maybe you could recommend me some, based on my ridiculous short list. My nights are long, so I promise I’ll read each and every one you prescribe.

But not before you tell me what books a certain booklover loves best.

10.42am

You make me want to be kidnapped so badly, right here and right now as I sit in my pyjamas just finishing up my breakfast. All those places you said—I could almost believe that here isn’t so violently mundane after all. When you describe our world, it sounds like dragons are just around the corner and magic is so close I could breathe it in.

I appreciate that. And all your books.

I’ve never been the sort to judge something people read for enjoyment. What better motive is there for reading then to fall into the familiar? To have fun, far away from whatever we have to deal with here?

In my opinion, Jurassic Park fits that bill perfectly. I love that it’s just a little more twisted than the movie. That Hammond isn’t the cosy-old-misguided-but-sweet-grandpops type. And even though Crichton himself is a bit of a tool, I go out of my mind for all that goofy pseudoscience stuff.

He’s got a way with info and detail. I’ll give him that.

Anyway, my fave books…

I’ll see you a Crichton and raise you a King. The Talisman, most probably. Just because it’s that disappearing-into-other-worlds thing again.

Earthsea, by Ursula Le Guin. If you need a woman to read, she’s your gal. Especially Tehanu, because it’s beautiful and amazing.

Another woman: Octavia Butler. Kindred. God, you can almost taste and feel everything she writes about. It’s raw and good and science fiction about things no one else writes science fiction about.

I suppose I should have something less fantastical on my list so:

Notes on a Scandal, by Zoe Heller.

It’s almost a memoir, the main character is so real. Like you can’t believe she doesn’t exist. And you hate her you hate her you hate while aching inside over her loneliness.

Finally, something from my childhood too. Monster, by Christopher Pike.

Gory and viscous, but with this great melancholy core.

And with that, I am out of lists.

How about this: last meal on earth?