Finding Comfort in Catharsis: A Guest Post by Jessie Sylva

Grumpy sunshine meets goblin and halfling chaos — add forced proximity in a cozy cottage, and you’ve got a recipe for romance. Read on for an exclusive essay from author Jessie Sylva on writing Our Monthly Pick, How to Lose a Goblin in Ten Days.

In the summer of 2018, my mother received her early on-set Alzheimer’s diagnosis. What followed thereafter was seven long years marked by a grief that ebbed and flowed like the tide. Every time it drew back, I’d take a gasping breath, thinking I’d finally adjusted to the latest iteration in a growing string of “new normals,” only to find myself plunged deeper than ever before. It was during this time that I wrote How to Lose a Goblin in Ten Days.

Although I have always considered myself to be a fantasy writer, the stories I wanted to tell up until this point all fell squarely within the realm of what most people would call “epic fantasy.” Full of political machinations and dire, world-ending stakes, these stories were the very opposite of “cozy.” And while they weren’t necessarily tragedies, there was also no guarantee of a happy ending.

Alzheimer’s doesn’t yet have a cure. I knew from the moment of my mother’s diagnosis exactly how this story would end. With so much tragedy in my own reality, I found myself longing for something different in my writing. Low stakes, warmth, and, above all else, comfort.

That desire for comfort echoes in every part of How to Lose a Goblin in Ten Days, from the detailed descriptions of food to the inherent familiarity of the setting, which brings to mind fantasies like Lord of the Rings or the tabletop roleplaying game, Dungeons & Dragons. Even the more serious elements of the story, such as the presence of long-held cultural prejudices that must be unlearned and the trauma engraved by war into both people and communities, stem from this selfsame desire.

Because there is comfort in catharsis, in feeling “negative” emotions and releasing them. The coziness of the story, with its promise of a happy ending, offers a safe space to engage with these more difficult topics. “Realism,” however one might choose to define it, is not the goal. Instead, the focus is on hope, on assuming the best of everyone rather than the worst.

In many ways, this kind of world is a stark contrast to our own reality, particularly as of late. Anxiety, despair, and anger paint a bleak picture that often lingers after the initial sharpness of these feelings fade. Yet, even in the darkest depths of my own grief, I was able to find a much-needed spark of light in Pansy and Ren’s story. Hope persists; you just need to look for it.