...is a condition I seem to have. Reading it, writing it, listening to it, watching it...you name it, I do it. If I tot up the hours in the day that I spend on some kind of fiction, it's quite alarming. Does it mean that I spend my time escaping reality? And what is it about fiction that is so wonderful? I have a good life, so I'm not trying to escape from anything. But when I look at (for example) John's bedside reading (history, biography, theology, politics) and mine (pretty well all fiction) I do wonder whether my life lacks...well, balance. Maybe I need help...?