It has been a few years since I curled up and enjoyed a fiction novel. The last few years have been filled with stuff related to my research interests and theory coursework. Yesterday, after looking at the Coupland book sitting on my entrance table, I decided to pick it up, and settle in. I forgot how much fun it was to read a book cover to cover in one sitting. How fun it was to read the story of someone else’s life, in rich, entertaining detail. But most of all, I forgot how much fun it was to read something that made you think about things that you may have otherwise not thought about. Coupland’s book made me think about my own cooky extended family, and how they made me what I am today – whether I want to admit it or not. The generalizable in each unique story was comforting. I forgot about the life lessons and deep philosophical questions an author sneeks into their candid words. I realized that not everything had to be written in long convoluted, sentences written in exagerrated language to make you think. I forgot how fun fiction was.