As you’re reading this, I’m arriving in Europe from California—probably jet-lagged, crabby, and sick of airplanes, but very happy to be embarking on a three-week trip. I’ll be spending some time touring the Loire Valley with the fabulous Shira Anthony, and then we’ll be joining a bunch of other wonderful people at Livre Paris. After that, I’ll take a few days’ detour into Belgium before joining up with the crew at Leipziger Buchmesse. Finally, I’ll have a couple of days in Munich before returning home. During those weeks I’ll practice my terrible French and my almost nonexistent German, as well as despair that I know not a single word of Flemish.

Not only does this journey cause me to contemplate how incredibly lucky I am to have the means and opportunity to do this. It also reminds me how odd writing is as a career.

On the one hand, writing is essentially a solitary activity. I often write with other people around: in my home kitchen, in cafés, in airports. But even then, my main focus is on getting stuff out of my busy brain and onto the page, which I do by myself. When I do a collaborative project with someone, we’ll spend a lot of time discussing it, both before the project begins and as we go. Still, the actual work of putting words down is done individually, in turns. Alone.

Unless you read aloud to others, reading is also a solitary activity. When I’m reading from a book or my Kindle or listening to an audiobook on headphones, whatever’s going on doesn’t involve the people around me. I often listen to audiobooks while I walk, and while I’m waving to my neighbors, I might be listening to anything in the world and they have no clue what (which is probably just as well).

So the process of creating and consuming fiction is generally solitary. And yet it introduces us to a whole world of (imaginary) people. We get to know them so well that we cry when bad things happen to them and celebrate their happy endings.

Even more than that, writing creates communities. Through my writing, I’ve met some of the most interesting, fantastic people. Other authors, of course, some of whom I now count among my close friends. But also editors, artists, narrators, translators, and the rest of the small army of people who make books happen. And, of course, readers. I love it when readers reach out to me via email or social media—and even better is when we get a chance to talk in person, as is about to happen in Paris and Leipzig.

So there you have it: the paradox of fiction. It’s a solitary activity that nonetheless forges kinship and friendship.

What has fiction brought to you—besides the stories themselves?

I hope I get to see some of you while I’m in Europe, or during my other travels this year.

***

Kim Fielding is the bestselling author of numerous m/m romance novels, novellas, and short stories. Like Kim herself, her work is eclectic, spanning genres such as contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, and historical. Her stories are set in alternate worlds, in 15th century Bosnia, in modern-day Oregon. Her heroes are hipster architect werewolves, housekeepers, maimed giants, and conflicted graduate students. They’re usually flawed, they often encounter terrible obstacles, but they always find love.

After having migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States, Kim calls the boring part of California home. She lives there with her husband, her two daughters, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. This may explain why her characters often seem to be in transit as well. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.

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A complete list of Kim’s books: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/kim-fieldings-books/