Books, Books, Books

I think I’ve figured out why I read so much … well, actually, why I read so much fiction. Not that I don’t enjoy an occasional historical novel, or a biography, or even a “how-to” self-help book… but for the most part, my choice is fiction. Not just any fiction, though; for instance, the “bodice-rippers” that some women enjoy seem light and fanciful and silly to me. Neither do I prefer science fiction, though I’ve read a lot of it in my time. Mysteries are fun; nothing like a good “whodunit”. I enjoyed all of Harry Potter (not purely a children’s series), and most of Stephen King (shudder). In fact, I’ve found that once I discover an author who “speaks to me”, I will make every effort to read more books by that same author. What a joy to find a really fine writer, a master of words, a magician with description and dialogue, a lover of nuance and suggestion, someone who moves the reader into the story with ease!

Some people say that reading fiction is pure escapism; others say it’s to live a fantasy. I’ve come to realize that it is far more than that. A good story has a beginning, a middle and an end. The characters appear, interact, develop and change, and find their place in the plot. The story takes on a life of its own, and becomes part of the reader’s experience/knowledge base/consciousness. Whether or not the author intends any effects, a good novel affects the reader. Sometimes it provides a means of relaxation or of reward, and yes, a way of getting away from “real life”. How and why that happens is the interesting part.

In a good novel the reader is presented with a setting and a situation, and from there on it becomes more or less complicated and more or less convoluted, but it always has a resolution. Actually, I find it rather comforting to realize that we readers are not responsible in any way for how things turn out. We can laugh or cry, and run through the entire gamut of emotions, but a novel, a piece of fiction, is, after all, make believe.

On the other hand, there is real life. It has a beginning, but we don’t know when we are at the middle, and who knows when or how the end will come? Life gets complicated, and more often than not there is no resolution… we just advance blindly into the next maelstrom. Our thoughts and actions and emotions are very, very real, and we are definitely responsible for how things turn out. The pressure is on, and it never lets up… we can’t close the book until we have time to look and see what happens.

Can there be any wonder why so many avid readers escape into fiction?