I don’t know about you, but whenever I return from a vacation, I need another damn vacation to recover from the first one! Maybe it’s because, being an active person who’s married to another active person and who bore two active sprouts who don’t know the meaning of “downtime,” we don’t seem to be able to understand the concept of a truly relaxing vacation. Case in point, this year and every year, when most sane individuals would be taking a relaxing holiday on some beach somewhere, or maybe a hot-tub equipped cabin, a cruise ship, or a luxury hotel, we go to War.

No, not real war. I’m more than aware that Real War is No Fun, and my heart goes out to all those who are separated from their loved ones due to armed conflict. The war we attend is a medieval recreation event known as the Pennsic War. This year was Pennsic XXXV. That’s right. Somebody has been doing this shindig for thirty-five years.

Now, any summer event with that many Roman Numerals after it ain’t no little get-together. We traveled to Western Pennsylvania with not one, not two, but twelve thousand like-minded individuals, set up camp (some of us in medieval period tents and pavilions that could pass for circus tents), put on steel armor and many-layered (read hot) period garb in the middle of August, and beat the living shit out of each other with rattan weapons in melee combat.

And we call it fun.

Hell, who wouldn’t? Pretending to be a medieval lord or lady, swanking around in long skirts (or short kilts if you’re a gent), strapping on a belt with a knife and not having anyone think twice about it, and (theoretically) adhering to the tenets of chivalry (although when that gorgeous metallic-gold trim goes on sale, all bets are off) is a manner of Playing Pretend that takes us all back to dress-up and age six. And having your SO tuck a strip of something you made into his belt and promise to fight for your honor, whether it’s a cross-stitch doodad or a piece of your hair band, and whether or not he actually defeats his opponent–there’s something just that shivery about it, even if it is pretend and you’ve been together for years already.

This year, we added to the fun by taking a short vacation from the Middle Ages to attend GenCon, which is the biggest gaming convention (I am that kind of n3rd, and damn proud of it. I play Dungeons and Dragons, and all your g33ky brothers’ friends only wish they could meet a chick like me) .

Now, I met Mr. Xandra through RPG gaming, so it always holds fond memories for me. All-night dice marathons fueled by Doritos and Cokes, Mighty Moose pizza (the only place that would deliver after three AM), and the zombified shuffle through the next day’s classes with a mind still in Superhero mode (or Elementalist Mage mode, or Cyberpunk Hacker mode) wondering what next week’s adventures would bring and if we could outsmart the GM’s evil plots to kill us off with NPCs. GenCon is where you can, if you schedule it right, just bury yourself in a four-day orgy of gaming until you’re hoarse and the corners of your dice have all worn down so far they might as well be marbles. But more than that, the energy from GenCon comes from what gaming is at its heart. It’s storytelling.

Not only storytelling, but collaborative, cooperative storytelling. A group of people, each working for a common goal of a really ripping tale of adventure, action, excitement, even tragedy. Fantastic worlds populated by characters who really are Just That Good.

So a vacation playing pretend and telling stories.  Maybe it isn’t relaxing, or isn’t exotic, or isn’t at all stress-free, but perhaps it’s the perfect vacation for a writer who loves to tell stories.

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