On not reading fiction…

July 6, 2019

I think I posted on this topic a while back; I’m still not reading very much fiction at all, though I have been re-reading some science fiction, but that doesn’t count, really – what I’m referring to is that I’m not discovering any new fiction, because I don’t really seem to want to…

There was research published not so long ago that suggested that men are less likely to read fiction, and I’m coming across more evidence that this seems to be the case; casual evidence, if you like, rather than research: of the literature-related blogs that I follow regularly, those by men tend to write about non-fiction, those by women write about fiction.

Someone (who – Umberto Eco?) once said that the person who reads novels lives 5000 lives whereas the person who doesn’t, only lives one. That has left me thinking that I’ve participated in thousands of lives in my time, and now that I’m increasingly aware that my time is limited, perhaps I’m concentrating on living my one and only life? But that just feels like a cheap crack, a throw-away response to the issue.

If I look at my ‘pending’ shelf, there’s quite a bit of fiction there, waiting for my attention. What actually happens quite often is that I will finish a book, and head to the pending piles for the next one, and find myself totally unable to decide on what to tackle next.

There are a decent number of novels waiting for me to choose from, and yet although at the time I bought them, they called to me, they now no longer do, and I can’t really figure out what is going on. I look to books I want to re-read, as a kind of comfort read, rather than having the courage to embark on something new, a challenge. Often I will wander off, defeated, and take refuge in a magazine or a crossword.

Does anyone else out there have this kind of problem?

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