In which I attempt to explain one of the reasons I read

I am one of those empathetic types they call a bleeding heart, a softie. My conscience is permanently in hyper drive. Not that I always do the right thing. I know I should buy fair trade; I do. I also know I should be a vegetarian; I’m not.

I grew up being described (by parents, aunts, uncles, family friends, etc.) in terms which indicated that my good traits are of the ‘soft’ variety: gentle, sensitive, quiet, tender-hearted.

In some ways I’ve changed a lot in the last few years; in other ways I haven’t changed at all. My friends would say I’m tougher. I don’t really think that’s true. I think I was always tough, it just took a while for me to realize it and act accordingly. Some of the things I have wanted to believe have crumbled in my hands; some of the clichés I wanted to reject have persisted. I have surprised myself with my own toughness, my own ability to withstand.

I have retained my bleeding heart. And that, I think, is the toughest character trait I have. It’s not easy to keep beliefs when acting on them takes great effort. It’s much, much easier to stop caring and go with the flow. If you ask me, jaded cynics are the soft ones.

I buy fair trade because I’m tough enough; the reason I’m not a vegetarian is that I’m too soft.

What has this got to do with reading?

Keeping ideals (read: values) means remembering that Other Beings in Different Situations exist. It’s easy to forget. Very, very easy.

They tell you that when you write fiction, you should lie. But the more I write, the more I discover that it is impossible to lie. Every word I write, every black-inked letter is a revelation about who I am, about my existence. The more I try to get outside of myself and write, the better I know what the limits of my own imagination and my own existence are.

In person, I often say things I don’t mean. I try to be completely honest, I really do, but words are slippery things. I could tell you what I think about Jane Austen, the Problem of Evil, marriage and cheese, but you still might not know who I was. There is an illusion that talking honestly about ourselves reveals truth, but it’s more complicated than that.

When I write... There is an illusion that fiction is a lie, but it’s more complicated than that.

The first story-lie that pops into my head: I recently met a pirate who I’m passionately in love with, and last month we eloped in Europe. It’s all lies. But there’s so much of me in that; I can’t tell a story that doesn’t have a lot of me in it. None of the facts are right, but I can’t escape my own internal symbolism (piracy, elopement and Europe all have heavy associations for me).

This is why I read other people’s work. I may not be able to understand their associations, but when I read someone else’s work I absorb another Way of Being. I am confronted with Somebody Else’s existence. I am forced to admit that there are Situations other than my own.

I believe this makes me a tougher person.