In 2014, I was a young scientist curing a plague in a dystopian world, and a warrior preparing for Valhalla. In 2014, I was men and women. I was a variety of races, nationalities, species, and whatever ways we use to group ourselves. I was the hero, the victim, and shades in between. I knew righteous hate, irrational fury, and unconditional love. I was the sports hero, and I sabotaged a game (thanks EJ). This means either I have a heck of a condition — or I’m a reader (the truth is probably somewhere in both camps).
I once saw a quote about readers: “I’ll only marry a reader. Why would I want to marry someone who will only experience one life?”
That’s the power of literature. Movies play in a similar area, but that’s more of a visual than a feel-type experience. Perhaps, as a writer, I’m biased. But what can beat being in someone else’s head? What’s better than living additional lives during this one?
When I talk with people who don’t read fiction (usually guys. They read, but the rate of fiction reading is higher with the ladies) I can’t help but feel sad for them. Sure, it may seem elitist, or worse, silly, to feel pity for others not having make-believe time. But then, why would I only want to live one life when I can life so many?