Fluffy Books

When I was small, I didn’t care for genres like science-fiction or fantasy. I sorted books into two categories: fluffy books, and books that weren’t fluffy books.

Nobody really knew what this meant, but they also knew. They understood that fluffy books made you laugh or feel all fuzzy inside, like kids’ chapter books or high school romances. And novels like The Hunger Games (which I liked a lot, at the time) did not go into that category. They simply couldn’t place their finger on why, and neither could I.

I lacked the depth to explain that you didn’t feel all empty inside when you finished reading a fluffy book. And that was the distinction. Books slightly heavier than your average slice-of-life drama left me with a certain weight that I couldn’t stomach.

Well, there is no such category for me now. I cannot shake that feeling you get when you finish a TV show and the break in immersion jars you from one world to the next. It doesn’t matter the medium; no Lucky Star nor Yotsuba&! nor Clarice Bean exists as escapist media.

I just want to read a fluffy book.