Reality reading

Most of you know I like to read. Love to read. A lot. A lot a lot.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I went through books like I went through peanut butter. I had an excellent librarian, and I bought lots of my own. Sometimes it was even a problem - I wouldn't be able to get on with life until I had finished the book I was reading. Or I'd feel a bit panicked if I didn't have anything new to start. Books, books, books, I couldn't ever have enough books.

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My dad didn't like fiction so much - in books, TV, or movies. I couldn't really understand it. Books were such a wonderful escape! And a way to see things from a different point of view! And the language, it could be so beautiful! And the characters, you could get so drawn into them!

But no, he preferred historical accounts, or informative articles about reality.

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When I was in Sydney, my brother said he was becoming like dad - less and less tolerant of fiction, and more interested in non-fiction.

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A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked what I'd read lately.

Nothing.

Which is true, I haven't read a book for ages.

But actually, I have read a lot. A lot a lot. It's just that I find myself embarrassed to say what.

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If I think about it, I haven't read a good book - a really really good book - in a very long time. I'm always finding fault with the premise, or the plot, or the writing itself, or else I don't feel anything for the characters or their situation.

Like my brother. Like my dad.

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Blogs.

That's what I've been reading. The stories that other people write - well-written, thoughtful, provocative real stories from their real lives - reach into me and affect me far more than books. These open my eyes to other situations, other possibilities. These make me feel the full sum of what it is to be human - the positions we get ourselves into, the consequences of the choices we make, the random, tragic shit that can happen. These make me think about my own choices, my own life. These make me laugh out loud, cry, shake my head in disbelief, feel humble.

Fiction seems contrived in comparison. It's not real enough.

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I find it really really hard to admit to what I've been reading though. Because even though they are real, blogs somehow seem less real, less worthy than a book.

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I once worked with someone who, whenever there was a general conversation about something, would join in giving examples from a show she'd seen on TV. Not from her own experience, like everyone else was doing. I always thought this was very sad, this regurgitating of a made up story as if it were a real life experience.

I guess I fear being judged in the same way, if I talk about a blog post I read?

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So I tend to say nothing, even though I haven't thought so much about so many different things for a long time.