unicorns & cocktail parties...

Sometimes people ask me why I wrote a fantasy novel (translation: they're concerned about my unicorn obsession).  My response?  The mainstream fictional world has been mapped out to such exactitude that every scenario of every character seems to have already been written before, whereas in the world of make-believe...nothing is ever certain.  My characters include faeries, elves, dragons, unicorns and even some creatures entirely of my own creation, such as the dragonime.  Together they create a world rich with unique perspective and summon the childlike wonder, the infinite realm of imagination, to burst open and celebrate the bizarre, magical and oftentimes delightfully nonsensical genre of fantasy.  The best part about it?  You can easily relate to these creatures and places even though they are so far removed from our own existence: an elven girl with a broken heart, a deformed boy with a huge secret, an evil dark lord with a tragic past; all manner of creatures in the fantasy world endure the same trials and tribulations of the real world.  Fantasy simply brings to life that joy and tragedy through a much more colorful lens...because let's be honest, sometimes the real world is rather dull... 
Take a cocktail party...wonder why there's alcohol at these types of events? Exactly...to endure the small talk.  "So, black suit man with gingham tie, what do you do?"  This is a required small talk question, and you would think that after saying it over and over again I would remember some of the answers.  Nope, not a chance.  My husband and I have a code word for all jobs that sound the same: "junior investment banker".  This is not because I know a junior investment banker or have any clue as to what one does, but because I find the job answer so boring that it floats through my brain like the whiff of a passing entree.  One minute I'm aware of it, the next, it's gone.  Job titles with the words: manager, communication, research & development, strategist, planner, marketing, finance, creative, associate, senior, junior, etc., automatically become junior investment banker.  This is about the time I start seeing unicorns everywhere: drinking from the punch bowl, nibbling on the crudite (they're crazy about crudite...crabcakes, not so much), and wading into the decorative koi pond for a dip.  If one of these suits or pencil skirts said "I'm a circus performer, I drive a garbage truck, I'm a taxidermist, I'm unemployed (period. not "but I'm doing consulting work for ___(some company made of three capitalized letters)"), I'm a graffiti artist, I have a duck farm, I'm a beekeeper, I'm a drug dealer, I sell origami, etc., then I would emerge from my wine-induced fog, rather dumbfounded.  This rarely happens.  What usually happens is that the alcohol kicks in and all of the sudden everyone seems much more interesting, investment banker or not.  The music changes from elevator jazz to top forty, and I realize that I've been talking to that girl I hated in high school for the last thirty minutes about how great those times were together.  We exchange numbers and promise to grab a drink.  An hour later the suits are asking me if I have a cigarette and I can smell the distinct scent of something burning other than citronella.  The wine is long gone and everyone seems more than happy with their bud light cans and the leftover crackers.  This is about the time that I find out how much everyone hates their junior investment banker job, and they turn to the guy with the duck farm and tell him that he's the only one who's really got it figured out (meanwhile he's stolen a case of wine from the host and taken the last loaf of french bread for his ducks).  A pink-faced investment banker named Grant Dimwit the III invites everyone to his place in manhattan and says he can get everyone free tickets to see the Yankees.  Lady Gaga is playing loudly in the background, while the bartenders supply the guests with cigarettes and become their new best friends.  And then...everyone drives home.
Okay, so maybe cocktail parties aren't always like that, but if I dared to make a whopping generalization, then yea, that would be a pretty accurate description. Solution?  Lace up some boots and go to a hipster party in Brooklyn, drink some Jameson and make fun of all those wealthy, private school kids that only care about themselves!  But wait?!?!  Isn't that what hipsters are too?  Oh, the irony...
The moral to this story?  Fantasy is awesome.  Unicorns are the best.  Go buy some ducks and realize your dream...