February 2, 2016 § 9 Comments
Recently, someone asked me why I read fiction.
The way he asked it.
As if reading fiction was a frivolous thing, even puerile.
As if fiction didn’t corroborate, vindicate, heal, illuminate, question, relieve, clarify, shift and rip apart.
As if fiction didn’t insist we climb into the membrane of another and examine thoughts, feelings, choices, and truths not our own.
As if fiction didn’t shape our becoming.
As if fiction wasn’t dangerous and therefore capable of waking us the hell up.
As if inhabiting another mind isn’t worth the ride.
As if fiction can’t level and reconstruct humanity.
As if we’re not all just making it up as we go anyway.