Reading fiction
isn’t a hobby for me. It’s not something that I do in my spare time to break
away from boredom or escape from the bombardment of horrifying new reports,
reality television ‘celebrities’ or the everyday doldrums of the 9-5.
Ok, it is, but
it’s also much more.
Fiction is my
savior, my champion, the key that opens the door and allows me to try on the
flesh suits of hundreds of thousands of individuals that I would never have
encountered in the ‘real’ world. Through fiction I have traveled to distant
lands, fought dark lords and horrifying monsters, loved and lost, died and
lived. Through fiction I’ve married, divorced, been unfaithful, remained loyal
to death. I’ve murdered the innocent, saved countless lives, and watched the
sun rise and set over ages of time. Through fiction I’ve traveled to places
like Middle-Earth, Prydian, Narnia, Westeros, and returned to wander the Earth
across time in ancient Rome and Greece, feudal China and Japan, colonial
Britain and the United States. I’ve watched kingdoms rise and tumble, seen the
flash of mushroom clouds and napalm fields, tallied the dead after seasons of
war. I’ve witnessed tragedy and triumph, love and hate, life and death and
survived by simply coming the end of the story.
I cannot imagine
being able to function without fiction to turn to and enjoy those intimate
moments with those hundreds of thousands of moments and people that have
allowed me to live through and with them across the pages. Could I? Sure. But
would I want to?
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