I used to tell people my favorite book was The Great Gatsby. I told them I liked the glitz and glam and I’d hope they would think I was cultured and mysterious. And then it was The Handmaid’s Tale because it sounded serious and wise. The truth is, I don’t remember reading either of those books. I do, however, remember rereading Water for Elephants again and again. And so I realized it was always there, my obsession with grimy adventure. I just needed to admit it and stop caring how everyone saw me.