An electrifying and vulnerable memoir that invites readers into an intimate conversation about our digital and physical selves, gender, and belonging. In My Body Is Distant, Paige Maylott writes about her life - both virtual and IRL - as she explores her authentic self and sexuality through dream-like virtual worlds. While Paige dances in online BDSM clubs and hurls spells on virtual battlefields, she is swept into a fairy tale romance that pushes her into discovery mode: How can she transcend her carefully curated computer universe and manifest that happiness in the real world? As she discovers the person she is meant to be, Paige contends with a cancer diagnosis and an imploding marriage while struggling to convert an online love story into reality. When a humiliation at work provides the necessary push to transition, Paige finds the freedom to explore her new self. Part trans woman's coming-out story and part heartfelt romance, My Body Is Distant follows Paige from a childhood obsession with the 1980s game Zork, through a health crisis and divorce, to, ultimately, an affirmation of authenticity and self-love. Part trans woman's coming-out story and part queer romance, My Body Is Distant is a memoir immersed in virtual worlds, where identity is fluid and fantasies proliferate, and where Maylott can escape her battle with cancer and the life-altering decisions she must make about the body she was born in and the person she really is. Paige Maylott is a writer, gamer, and explorer of virtual worlds based in Hamilton, Ontario. She is a 2021 Hamilton Arts & Letters Award winner for Creative Non-Fiction, and a recipient of the 2022 Canada Council for the Arts grant. I open my notebook and write out the equation. Mrs. Lampman points her chalk at the class and says, "Once you complete these problems, you are welcome to do whatever you like until lunchtime. You may begin." Pencil scratches echo through the class, accented with confused groans. Mrs. Lampman circles the room, glancing at notebooks as she passes. "You can draw, review your answers, or -" I slap my pencil onto the desk and thrust my hand into the air so fast I skew my glasses and the broken arm falls into my lap. When I pull the rest of the frames off my face, the room smears into obscurity. I replace the arm and pinch the surrounding tape. It will probably be another month before Dad can buy me a replacement pair. That also means less for Christmas. Mrs. Lampman clops to my desk on brilliant white heels, a perfumed cloud of flowers washing over me a moment after she arrives. She crouches, knees clicking, and supports herself with a hand on my desk. Her painted nails are as white as her shoes. "Did you have a question, Paul?" The question I want to ask is, How do I talk you into letting me skip recess from now until forever so I don't get my glasses all the way smashed in, but I say, "No, Mrs. Lampman, I'm finished." "Done?" Mrs. Lampman scoffs and spins my notebook. She traces through math problems with the tip of a manicured nail. "This is excellent. You can draw, or rest your head if you like?" Before she escapes to her desk, I hurriedly ask, "Can I study on the school computer?" She leans in conspiratorially. "Are you allowed to?" "We're allowed to play math games. Nobody uses it right now." Mrs. Lampman eyes the clock, then her desk and her waiting novel. "I don't see any reason to say no, you seem to have all the right -" But I'm already hurrying toward the door, ignoring Kevin's confused glare, past inquisitive faces glancing up from half-finished work with surprised but unspoken why are you allowed to leave expressions. "- answers." Mrs. Lampman calls after me, "Just until lunchtime!" I flash a bucktoothed smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Lampman." I close the door and speed walk, rubber sneaker soles

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