I don’t really read much realistic fiction. I like to escape, I need to escape, but there are some writers I am right there ready to take part in their creations when they appear such as Laurie Halse Anderson, Nova Ren Suma, and Courtney Summers to name a few. The reason these writers stand out in my mind? Others are squeak hammers; these three are those climbing ones that would go straight through your skull. I’m thinking about this as I’m reading All The Rage by Courtney Summers sitting in the library after work. If I’m going to read realistic fiction I don’t need no after school special rated for the age group and time slot, which is usually before school even lets out. I want; I need to feel scratchy, played, twisted, punched in the face to pay attention, called to think, and questioned about myself and the world, by myself and the world. I love writers, artists who have no interest in me being comfortable, except when they are playing with my little bitty brain holder. Love when a book can make you have to put it down for a bit so you can think, because dammit you really need to think on this. Art that crawls under your skin and you see the pages as an elastic gift which flips between the eyes we need and this is where powerful art lives. So I’m going to sit here and read more. Sometimes I look up and wonder why the world around me isn’t noticing what’s going on? Can’t they see? Don’t they feel what’s going on here?