For those of you who know me, really know me, or at least, about me, you may have noticed my frequent selection of sad books to read. Or surprising knowledge of a few serious subjects. Or that I happen to write about people who happen to feel quite bad about themselves who have self-destructive tendencies. You might notice that the majority of the little sketches of people I draw aren't usually smiling, or that their eyes are unhappy. Perhaps you noticed this a lot when I was younger.
Ha, I'm quite narcissistic today; there's a high likelihood you never noticed these things. Why should I expect you to pay that much attention to me? I'm not the important one in your life, really. I wish I had been pointing to God more during the time such things consumed my life.
But in all honesty, those things sort of do still consume my life. I once read those sad fiction novels in order to understand peers and future peers who do and would deal with similar things. Never really for myself. I shunned "escapism" that I judged to be found in fantasy novels, embraced the darkness of young adult realistic fiction, embraced the terrible fear and possible reality of YA science fiction. I was wrong about fantasy, I'm sure. Yet when I ran into YA realistic fiction that I felt I could relate to, I put it away. I had always been afraid of facing myself, I suppose. I wanted to help others; I didn't read the books like they would be relevant to my life, only lives that I was hoping to be a part of.
And now I still read sad books, but some of them feature real people. I follow the lives of people in real life who face real tragedy as they go through it, even (well, more like especially) when I don't personally know them, which could be/likely is somewhat unethical and probably unsettling and the slightest bit wrong. I don't do read real life to gawk. I read real-life stories of life's many difficulties in order to understand people more, as I have using fiction for the longest time. But I like to hear people's voices as they actually are, also. There is credibility in their voices, there is honesty I don't find in the people that I see everyday. I read to learn, to understand. And I suppose, to face my own frailty and mortality before it becomes necessary.
I write, hoping I convey life as it is, even though fiction can never be fully "realistic". And yet, more often than not, my stories are not. There may be something fundamentally wrong with me. I want to glorify God more than ever, and all truth is his truth, all light comes from him, even if the source doesn't seem quite so clear in fiction. So I try to tell the truth with my stories, but I find them riddled with lies. There is so much of me that still doesn't understand. I hope to, one day.
Ha, I'm quite narcissistic today; there's a high likelihood you never noticed these things. Why should I expect you to pay that much attention to me? I'm not the important one in your life, really. I wish I had been pointing to God more during the time such things consumed my life.
But in all honesty, those things sort of do still consume my life. I once read those sad fiction novels in order to understand peers and future peers who do and would deal with similar things. Never really for myself. I shunned "escapism" that I judged to be found in fantasy novels, embraced the darkness of young adult realistic fiction, embraced the terrible fear and possible reality of YA science fiction. I was wrong about fantasy, I'm sure. Yet when I ran into YA realistic fiction that I felt I could relate to, I put it away. I had always been afraid of facing myself, I suppose. I wanted to help others; I didn't read the books like they would be relevant to my life, only lives that I was hoping to be a part of.
And now I still read sad books, but some of them feature real people. I follow the lives of people in real life who face real tragedy as they go through it, even (well, more like especially) when I don't personally know them, which could be/likely is somewhat unethical and probably unsettling and the slightest bit wrong. I don't do read real life to gawk. I read real-life stories of life's many difficulties in order to understand people more, as I have using fiction for the longest time. But I like to hear people's voices as they actually are, also. There is credibility in their voices, there is honesty I don't find in the people that I see everyday. I read to learn, to understand. And I suppose, to face my own frailty and mortality before it becomes necessary.
I write, hoping I convey life as it is, even though fiction can never be fully "realistic". And yet, more often than not, my stories are not. There may be something fundamentally wrong with me. I want to glorify God more than ever, and all truth is his truth, all light comes from him, even if the source doesn't seem quite so clear in fiction. So I try to tell the truth with my stories, but I find them riddled with lies. There is so much of me that still doesn't understand. I hope to, one day.
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