Remember how I’m addicted to strange things? Here’s another one. I guess I’ve been addicted for a long time, but I didn’t realize it until a few days ago.
I am addicted to fictional small towns. Yup. You heard me.
Here we go again.
I love the characters who live there.
I love the scenic-ness of how I imagine these places to be.
I love the way these towns have charm. friendliness. personality. community unity.
While there’s not a thing evil about any of these places (which may also be partly why I love them…I don’t do the whole evil thing), the problem is that I love them way too much. Like enough that I want to move there. Kind of a lot.
I love the idea of living somewhere and knowing everyone in the whole town, and them all knowing me. I love the idea of being able to support your neighborhood grocer, bookseller, troubadour, and mechanic without leaving town.
I love the idea of running through lover’s lane to tell my best friend some news or having the mail brought in from town on the train or mail boat. I love the idea of secret reading societies or writing groups. Or learning to carve or bake or paint from one of your neighbors.
But most of all, I love the scope for imagination that can only be found in small towns. I love thinking that you can move to a small town and fit right in. I love that more people fall in love in small towns than any other place.
As far as I know, fictional small towns are the greatest thing ever. And I’m moving to one when I grow up. Who’s with me?