Kerry Allen

I was asked why I read—not why I read romance (or any other genre), not why I’m reading any particular book, but why I read in general, other than instruction manuals and research materials (”required” reading). The first response that sprang to mind was “to escape,” but that’s not accurate. Honestly, I would not want to escape to most of the places and situations in my chosen reading material, and there’s no escaping anything in my life I might want to get away from, anyway. I wanted to give a better answer, so I hit up Google to find someone more adept than I at explaining her motivations.

I found a blog entry by Rosemary Esehagu aptly entitled “Why do people read fiction?”, in which she says the following:

“… I read fiction because it gives me permission to create as well. The writer may see his/her world as blue, but I am allowed to see it as periwinkle blue, or blue with a splash of lavender. With fiction, I am not just watching (as I feel that I am with non-fiction), I am also a participant, a fellow creator. As a result, I too have responsibility for the life of the book. With fiction, I am not limited to the point of view of the writer. I can disagree, I can acquiesce, and I can do a mixture of both. The result is that the book exists on a richer level in my mind.

“Reading fiction more readily promotes a crossing-over—a chance for the reader and the writer to exchange parts of their worlds, which gives you a slightly different story world, and one that is grounded in the world of the writer and the reader. It is no wonder that any particular fiction has a somewhat different meaning to each reader.”

That’s part of the reason I read fiction. Instead of throwing facts (nonfiction) or images (TV/movies) at me, fiction requires me to contribute something of myself (imagination) to make it work. I’ve had profound differences of opinion with others about the quality of world building, for example, in certain books, and I now wonder if that’s due to the reader’s contribution to the book—I fill in a lot of blanks when I commit to a story, so maybe the story I’m reading no longer bears much resemblance to the same story in another reader’s hands.

Elizabeth Lowell has written an essay entitled Popular  Fiction: Why We Read It, Why We Write It. It’s primarily a defense of genre fiction (versus literary fiction and the critics who love one and disdain the other), but what she has to say about transcendence and optimism in pop fiction fall under the umbrella of why I read.

“The underlying philosophy of much popular fiction is more optimistic [than literary fiction]: the human condition might indeed be deplorable, but individuals can make a positive difference in their own and others’ lives…

… [P]opular fiction is composed of ancient myths newly reborn, telling and retelling a simple truth: ordinary people can do extraordinary things. Jack can plant a beanstalk that will provide endless food; a Tom Clancy character can successfully unravel a conspiracy that threatens the lives of millions. A knight can slay a dragon; a Stephen King character can defeat the massed forces of evil. Cinderella can attract the prince through her own innate decency rather than through family connections; a Nora Roberts heroine can, through her own strength, rise above a savagely unhappy past and bring happiness to herself and others.”

There are real-life problems that will never be resolved. I have them. You have them. Real life is messy that way. Novels are structured so that introduced conflicts must be resolved one way or another by the final page. At the end of a novel, it makes me feel good that the characters have triumphed and resolved their conflicts (with the exception of one Stephen King book—was it Tommyknockers?—which ended with “and then everybody died, the end,” which is not a feel-good kind of resolution), which too often isn’t possible outside the realm of fiction.

Now for some reasons I didn’t pilfer from others.

Never let it be said that fiction isn’t educational. With my terrible memory for names and dates, I’m never going to apply to be a contestant on Jeopardy, but I dominate the Potpourri category every single time, primarily due to the treasure trove of trivia I’ve amassed through a lifetime of reading. (Example: Didja know Florida orange growers will hose down groves in freezing temperatures, completely encapsulating the trees in ice, to protect them from frost? And you really, really do not want to know what I do about forensics; my enthusiasm on that subject has made tough guys gag.)

My day job is repetitive and mind-numbingly boring. Those aren’t dandruff flakes on my shoulder—those are brain cells sloughing off and leaking out my ears. The act of reading—looking at the words, processing them, interpreting them—constitutes much-needed cognitive stimulation, regardless of subject matter. My preferred subject matter is fiction because by the end of the day, I deserve something entertaining.

I don’t have the time, money, or courage to travel, and I’m afflicted with paralyzing social phobia. In other words, I don’t get out much. Through novels, I have the opportunity to visit places I’ve never been and have no expectation of ever going. I could read a travelogue, but they tend to be dry and impersonal, whereas in fiction, the settings are often intimately related to the characters and their actions, giving them a richer feel.

Not to mention the impossibility of visiting a setting in any time other than right now. Novels make fantastic time machines.

Once again armed with self-awareness, I can answer the question of why I read fiction. I might add a question of my own: Why wouldn’t someone read fiction?

I can’t imagine how dull life would be without it.