I once broke up with a guy because I learned he didn’t read fiction. (Sorry Daniel, it’s true. I let you believe that the other issues of incompatibility were the culprit, but it came down to your aversion to fiction.) Fact.
I can’t relate to someone who doesn’t appreciate a good story. It is like trying to be friends with someone who doesn’t care for music. Did you know these people even exist? My mother is one. She’d rather have silence than music and she has no music collection. Now that I think about it, she doesn’t have any fiction books either. Her shelves are filled with religious and self-help books.
I own some of those books as well, along with a decent collection of Science and other topics, but I can’t… no, I don’t want to live in a world without fiction. The man I spoke about is an avid reader, but believes his reading time should be devoted to learning, as if this can only happen from non-fiction.
But one thing I can say in that man’s favor; he was honest. Most people say they read, but don’t. Here is the most depressing infogram I have ever encountered:
I truly hope you are upset by that data. I was and still am. And yet, I admit my reading has plummeted since I started writing voraciously. But my ipad is as much to blame. I read and help edit other writers, I read blogs and short stories, blurbs on the internet, and I spend a lot of time doing ‘research’ on the internet.
But I still read books. I still hold a few fiction books in my hand each year and read them, because when I am asked the question, “What have you been reading?” I want to have an answer. I want to drink my own koolaide. I want to be a true bibliophile, a promoter of reading, and a fictionista. And the only way to do that is to actually read and not just talk about it.
So I am ending this blog to pick up my book. I’m reading, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” in case your curious.