Whomever told you that this isn’t healthy is lying to you. It’s absolutely healthy to engage in escapism as long as you’re not doing it to the exclusion of your responsibilities. Go forth and enjoy the Harry Potter!

I also have a Safe Space book. I struggle with addiction and there’s a fiction novel I re-read when I’m in a bad way. It’s fiction, but the author captured the slide into utter hopelessness and depravity in a way I’ve never seen before nor since. It’s a grizzled AA veteran sharing the time they ended up under a bridge, or a sad-eyed woman talking about her parking lot miscarriage at the liquor store. Somehow it helps.

The Guest by Emma Cline is going to be with me for a long time.

I have spent the last few minutes cleaning coffee off of my keyboard, thank you. I know that’s an ancient meme but it’s actually true this morning.

“…questionable things with a banjo” indeed :)

Winking. Seriously, when was the last time somebody winked at you in real life? If your uncle is Santa, then, I guess I could see it happening once or twice a year. But some books apparently need an eyewash station.

Stomping your feet. “She stomped her foot.” Unless you’re writing a Victorian period-piece, nobody fucking does this.

Eyes flashing. I can deal with microexpressions - sometimes a look really does flash across someone’s face when they’re trying to hide something. The worst example of this of course is that Brown guy “his eyes flashed then went white like a shark about to attack” or whatever. No, they didn’t.

I don’t know anyone who dreams as literally as characters in books do.

“That night, after my mother’s funeral, I dreamed I was standing alone on a dock at the lake. My mother was floating away in the cold, dark water. No matter how I begged, she wouldn’t swim back to the shore.”

You know what a real dream is?

“Last night, I dreamed that my 3rd grade piano teacher tried to get me to invest in his business selling custom birdcages. I ended up feeding a library book to his brother, who was actually R2-D2 in drag.”

Dreams are fuckin’ weird, not plot contrivances.

One of the worst books I have ever read was The New Neighbor, by Karen Cleveland.

The world’s stupidest FBI agent meets the world’s dumbest CIA agent. Together, they accuse literally every named character in the book of being a terrorist. One at a time. It is as tedious as you think it is. “Let’s see, we’re 2/3 of the way through the book and the main moron is on her fifth accusation. I’m sure this is the one!”

It’s okay, though. Because apparently if a CIA agent accuses you of being an international terrorist with a body count a mile long, you can just say “nuh-uh” and the CIA agent has to go away. Legally.

My absolute favorite twist on this garbage was by Riley Sagar (who used to be a good writer before diving into supernatural shit).

The female MC inherited some massive haunted mansion and there was a big horror / murder mystery plot. You know the deal: one of those “is the whole town in on it” kind of plots where you suspect everyone at one point or another.

So as the plot dictates, our female MC (newly-single but still hot ofc) and the hunky hot neighbor guy who is handy start to make eyes at each other. She bakes him a pie; he fixes her ceiling. Will they or won’t they?

But also as the plot dictates, Hunky becomes the main suspect briefly. “Wait… you mean, you knew about this secret tunnel this whole time?” Hunky of course didn’t do it and the MC finds the real culprit.

In the aftermath, MC goes over to Hunky like “Okay this is where we fuck now”. In a wonderful little twist, Hunky snarls “Fuck you, a day ago you accused me of murder. Not only are we not getting together at the end of this story, but I am moving away. You’re insane.”

The best alcoholic portrayal I’ve ever read (I struggle with it, too) was Paradise, by A. L. Kennedy. It’s not a happy book but it is fiction and it hurts to read. Highly recommended. I don’t know if A. L. is herself an alcoholic but please check it out.