Fiction!

Fiction, I have always loved fiction. For as long as I can remember I have adored poring over book after book of adventures and mysteries from other times, other lands. Some of my most vivid childhood and adult memories are of the books I have read. Richard Scarry books filled with pictures of a strange little worm in a strange little hat, and an even stranger ape wearing dozens of watches. I read My Big Book of Fairy Tales, and My Giant Book of Fairy Tales and better yet, the more exotic book of Fairy Tales that my Aunt sent me for Christmas one year that had fairy tales from China and other countries more interesting than my own. I read The Monster at the End of this Book, or I had it read to me so many times I think my parents thought they might loose their minds. I remember at my birthday party in grade 3 I was given the book Farmer Boy and realized for the first time that people actually wrote books long enough that I couldn't read them all in one sitting and even better, they wrote several books that formed a series. Often when I had reached the end of a book I felt somewhat devastated that the story was over, so for me the discovery of the sequel, the trilogy and the series was akin to heaven.

As a kid from the country trips to the library usually had to be tacked on to trips to run errands in town. I would get as many books as I was allowed and had started them by the time we were in the car and if we stopped at the Greenhouse, I could sometimes even finish one! Who could stand to wash dishes, sweep floors, clean bedrooms, weed gardens, when there were stories to be read, places to explore,strange people and creatures to meet. My mom found the perfect chore for me one year. Our newly planted row of evergreen trees needed to be watered and the garden hose moved every 20 minutes or so to the next tree. So there I spent my summer, seated in a lawn chair, book in hand, watch in the other, occasionally forgetting the watch until the puddle around the tree surrounded my feet. 

Once I had devoured everything I deemed worthy in the church library and the public library, finishing all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, everything by L.M. Montgomery, and every book in the Mandi series (which I now can't believe I actually read), I began to purchase books with my allowance. Book after book. I look back with a degree of embarrassment at the quality of books that I purchased. I just didn't know better, or maybe people just weren't writing great books for kids then or perhaps they just weren't available in my small town bookstore. I have quite the collection of Babysitter's Club books amassed in the shelves at my parent's house (shudder).

I used to, and still, get asked why I bother buying books that will only be read once. Few people who really know me ask ever ask that question. I own almost no books that have been read only one time and some have been read upwards of 20 times! Yes, even the mysteries. Each time I delve into the world of the author and the characters the story comes to life in a new way. How could I read a good book only once!

In high school I discovered an Agatha Christie book on my dad's bookshelf, By the Pricking of my Thumbs. Old and somewhat dusty, I was desperate one evening for something to read and within a few pages I was hooked. Thank goodness Agatha Christie was a prolific author!  I spent the next four years digging up every one of her books that I could find.

I think it was probably in high school too when I began to realize that if a book was really not grabbing my attention, or if it was poorly written, then I didn't actually need to finish the book. What a completely bizarre thought. I remember holding a book in my hands and thinking about all the millions of books in the world and realizing that if I just slogged through the bad ones for no good reason, I would never get to all the good ones!

In junior high and high school I was also introduced to the world of Canadian, and even more specifically Prairie literature. If anything was going to turn me off of reading, I swear it could have been those years of English Literature classes. I just could not, and still cannot quite get my head around why I would want to read books about what was happening right outside my door. I know what harvest is, I was all too familiar with tumbleweed, drought, tractors, and eating sandwiches on the back of a pickup truck! And even now, while I value those things, and love life on the prairies (though I don't like dirt), I still don't want to read about it. Looking back I was probably the only kid in my Jr. high class that honestly preferred reading Word To Caesar over Who has Seen the Wind.

High school also led to the discovery of books about war and world issues and for a few years nothing held my attention like WWII. Growing up on a small farm in Southern Manitoba, and attending a Mennonite church made war a very foreign concept for me and for a time I just needed to dive into the world of war and pain and suffering. This is an experience that I have actually heard voiced by many others when they look back over their adolescence. Perhaps it is simply a time of trying to figure out what it means to suffer, or why people hurt each other the way we do. Who knows.

While I adore books of prose, I do not adore books of poetry.  The only poetry that I really find I value is liturgy and the Psalms. I can worship through poetry, but it does not satisfy my need for story. I feel remorse for every poor teacher who struggled to help me to understand that poetry is beautiful, that it tells a story in the fewest words possible, while I looked at them with utter disdain and a complete lack of comprehension. Why would anyone want to write a story in as few words as possible. I could not imagine. I even found, and honestly still find, short stories to be annoying. There is simply not enough there! Yes I know it's a craft blah blah blah...

Almost every day, evening, or night of my entire life has included reading fiction (or listening to it). Without it I am a mess it seems. Fiction grounds me like nothing else in the world. When I move to a new home, find myself in a new bed in a different city, I am comforted and grounded as I hold in my hands a favourite book that is a dear old friend. 

In the last number of years I have found myself especially drawn to youth literature. After years of mysteries and crime novels that had begun to numb my sense of what is good and whole, I needed a break. I needed books that have all of the suspense, the adventure, the drama, and none of the crass language, senseless violence, and random meaningless sex that much of mainstream fiction for adults has to offer. I needed stories and I found them. First I found Harry Potter, then Percy Jackson et al. (not as well written, but not much is), Artemis Fowl, Eragon, Among the Hidden, The Hunger Games and the list goes on.

People used to tell me that once I grew up there wouldn't be time to read so much, then they said when I was working there wouldn't be time, then they said when I was in university there wouldn't be time, then they said when I was pastoring there wouldn't be time, then in seminary there wouldn't be time...but there always is. I find it. I have to. Stories are like water, food, sleep. 

I used to think the reason that I loved fiction so much was because I have an active imagination, but now I know that it is reading fiction that has created or developed my imagination (and my at times odd vocabulary). I know that when I look at a problem and see only one solution that I have not read enough fiction lately. I know when the world seems grayer and things seem impossible that I have spent too much time looking at the news or textbooks and not enough time fighting dragons or wandering through Diagon Alley.  

So, as a reader who is constantly searching for new books to read, I ask you (whoever you are), what books are your dearest old friends?