As you may have guessed, I love fiction … any type of fiction. Though I may not read all genres—they may not all appeal to me—that doesn’t mean that I don’t like it. Let me clarify here. I don’t discriminate against any type of genre. I don’t look at a book and go, “Oh, that’s Sci-Fi. Let’s put that back.” I don’t look at all romance books and go, “Gimme them all!” And just because I don’t enjoy a book, doesn’t mean that I don’t love the notion of it. For me, fiction is something that connects dots in the unconnected parts of my world.
Ever since I can remember, I have loved to read. I loved stories; I loved the fact that a small object—paper, no less—could transport you to a whole other world if you only dared to open it.
There is this photo, that I have, of me when I was about one or two years old, lying flat on my back, a cushioned plastic book (yes, they existed) clutched in my hands and ,y arms shooting straight up so that the pages of the book were hanging above my head. In this photograph, I am staring intently at the book, determined to decipher the story. Of course, I didn’t even know what a word was, so the possibility of me actually reading the thing was next to impossible. But I was interested—nay, mesmerised—by the object in my hands and I have remained so for pretty much the entirety of my life.
So here, today, I thought I would share with you three of my favourite authors and why I think they are so fabulous:
- Jane Austen. So, I know that Austen is one of the greats and that pretty much every one has, at least, heard of her. For me, she is so much more than a romance author. I have even voiced my opinions in my literature class against such a notion. She has subtleties in her writing that can only be picked up if you pull it apart, but you don’t need to find those subtleties to enjoy the book.
Last year, I got the chance to visit the church in which she is buried (Winchester Cathedral, in case you were wondering) and I know this seems silly, but whilst I was standing there reading the enscription on the floor, I felt whole. Ok, ok, ok, I am weird, I get it. But she’s my fav, despite basically all of my friends’ distaste with nineteenth century fiction.
- John Green. What do I say about the father of Tumblr? I just love his books—every one of them. To begin, his writing style is exquisite—it inspires me, though I am not game to attempt to emulate it because there is no way that I could ever do it justice.
He seems to be so in touch with the way that the world works and what makes people tick, which is evident in the perfectly rounded and realistic characters he creates. Not only does he never fail to bring me to tears with The Fault in Our Stars and Looking for Alaska, but he gives me something to aspire to. I wish him success with all future endeavours because a talent such as his should be cherished and appreciated.
- Monica McInerney. My first McInerney was given to me for Christmas by my sister-in-law a couple of years ago. It was called At Home with the Templetons. That was when I fell in love. In the following months, I made regular visits to my local library collecting and devouring every McInerney that I could get my hands on.
McInerney does romance and life’s complications so well. I always find myself caught in the worlds that she creates and attached to all of her characters. Like John Green, Monica McInerney has impeccable talent which should be shared with the entire world.
If you haven’t heard of these authors or read any of their writing, I highly reccommend you do. I enjoy reading their books immensely and would like to share the joy that I get from these books with the rest of the world.
Fiction has the capacity to bridge gaps between people all over the world. It speaks to the reader on intimate levels and at the same time speaks to the world as a whole. It brings people together, like JK Rowling did with Harry Potter, and it gives readers company when they feel completely alone.
I love fiction. I love the power that it can have. I love the healing it can do. And I, one day, want to be a person that can bring that all to you.
The water in the kettle bubbles furiously as “the boil” encroaches rapidly and it switches off with a sharp click. I pour the hot water into the mug and watch as whisps of colour spread out from the teabag in pretty patterns. The effect is somehow calming. As it brews, I fetch my novel from its perch beside my bed, slide my glasses over my eyes and grab a homemade quilt from the end of my bed. The rainy days are the best.
With my fully brewed tea; the fire stoked and the quilt across my knees, I catapault myself into a world more interesting than my own. Some days there are dragons, kings and queens; some days there are some heavy romances; sometimes wizards find themselves in trouble at every opportunity that arises. It doesn’t matter which world, I am always lost … until the tea runs out. Even when retrieving a much needed refill, the door of the Tardis remains open, ready to take me back to the world I just left.
The day began in discomfort and pain—the type where your head struggles to stand and walk in a straight line. Lying in bed the prospect the day brought was a little too much my slumberous resolve; and, thus, prospect snapped resolve like a thin pencil and left the remains in its wake. “Brutality” is, apparently, not a word of the day; instead it is replaced with “daily routine” or “neccesary”.
So reading, instead of just accompanying me at the breakfast table, has now become my entire day—something to glue my pieces back together, something to distract and enthrall until my surroundings waste away. And this is why I sit, knees to chest, quilt bunched between my toes and chewing absently on my thumbnail—because, for me, a life without fiction is a life utterly wasted.