Sunday, September 19, 2010

Matter of Fiction


I am a great lover of fiction. Not even good fiction - I'm not after critical acclaim, or existential enlightenment, or anything else, really. I read purely because I can lose myself in other worlds, and I love it. It's what I do to really make myself chill out during term time - which is probably why I read things that are usually pretty run-of-the-mill; dodgy, even. Not that I'm complaining with reading for school - on the contrary. I enjoy researching for my assignments (probably because I like what I'm studying, I think it makes a difference), and while I'm not always known to do my readings for my classes, I am generally interested in the subject matter and like learning things.

But...



When it boils down to it, I like crappy novels. I like romance - I like to know that the main character is going to get their romantic interest (or at least, the one who is best for them). I get caught up in adventure. I write myself into the book, and then feel as though I'm living it. At the moment, I'm reading Isabel Allende's Zorro, which is actually pretty good going. But, such is the nature of assessment and work and social lives, I don't get the chance to read that much. If I don't have any other commitments, I can rip through a novel in a day or two. But at the moment, it's taking me a couple of weeks. Which is annoying (for me), but really, as long as I get to snatch moments here and there to read something that I want to read - as opposed to something that I have to read - I tend to feel more like myself. I need it. I adore that sense of possibility that comes with opening a new book, or standing in a bookshop surrounded by unread paperbacks.



Nothing beats it.

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