My mom doesn’t understand my reading habits. I believe the exact quote was, “I would think science fiction would be the last thing you’d be interested in.” The fact that I read mostly fantasy is a distinction I didn’t even bother to bring up. She wouldn’t understand.
Let me back up. Provide context.
My mother is an avid reader. She has been my entire 34 years on this planet. I’m certain that my love of reading is directly attributable to hers. I also think that, in both our cases, it all stems from a desire to escape from reality for a few chapters at a time.
My mom tends to read thrillers. And only thrillers. James Patterson. John Grisham. Vince Flynn. I tried to get her to read Le Carre but she found it “boring.” I don’t get it, but to each his or her own. I don’t read thrillers. I read a few Grisham books in high school. They were OK. Then I became a lawyer, and the last thing I want to read about is other lawyers. In fact, I barely read contemporary fiction at all. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy it. It isn’t that there aren’t great works of fiction to be read. I just have no interest. I’m perfectly happy in my world of swords, sorcery and boiled leather.
I think my mom truly enjoys looking at our world through the lens of danger, crime and intrigue. Our family has experienced little or none of those things for several generations. It is a safe way for her to walk down the dark alley without actually having to deal with the potential consequences. I respect it. But I don’t cop to the same feelings.
I read all the time. But I’m not very well-read. The only Franzen I care about is the one that isn’t currently scoring goals for the Detroit Red Wings. I’ve never read the Da Vinci Code. I detested most of the “literature” I was forced to read in high school (bits of Hemingway, Moliere and Hugo being exceptions). And I think that is what my mother doesn’t get.
She knows that I love to shove as much information into my mind-hole as possible, and she knows I love the craft of writing and can appreciate all the nuances that can be found in various genres. So why should I limit myself to what, in her mind, is a very narrow portion of the literary spectrum?
Sometimes I don’t understand it myself. Here’s what I’ve come up with.
First, fantasy is by far my favorite genre. Always has been. And we should read what we like, right? This isn’t high school or college. This is reading for pleasure. And I get the most pleasure out of reading a fantasy series that stretches over the course of several volumes. I like the tropes. I like the epic scope. I like the magic. I like the dragons.
I live in the real world. I more or less understand what happens here, if not always why. Why read fiction set in the here and now? Nonfiction? Absolutely. History? You bet. But I could care less what Alex Cross is up to. I do have a soft spot for Le Carre and Tom Clancy, and I attribute that solely to watching a ton of James Bond movies as a kid. I find espionage fiction—particularly in the Cold War era—to be fantasy of a different nature. I know it makes no sense. Just accept it and move on. I did.
Second, I have a backlog. As many fantasy novels and series as I’ve read, there are always more to be read. And the list gets bigger every day. And every time a fantasy novel or series gets added to the list, a contemporary work of fiction gets bumped to the back of the line. Right or wrong, it is the way of my world. I’m not really reading to gain insight into the human condition or the plight of the modern man (although that can happen through fantasy). I’m reading to be entertained. And the fantasy genre is entertaining. To me, anyway.
Which brings me back around to escapism. I don’t think I’ve ever truly “escaped” when reading contemporary fiction. Even historical fiction such as the Masters of Rome series by Colleen McCullogh or Gary Jennings’ Raptor doesn’t really do it for me. Tolkien does. Daniel Polansky does. Even urban fantasy as written by Jim Butcher or Richard Kadrey transports me to a different place unlike “real world” fiction. I’ve always wondered what other worlds were like; fantasy gives me the opportunity to explore them.
Sure, it is escapism. And sure, there have been times in my life when the desire to escape has probably been unhealthy, but that’s why fantasy is such a great genre. No matter how frustrating, irritating, scary or disappointing real life can be, a good fantasy novel always takes me to a better place. Even if that better place is a war-ravaged continent ruled by an oligarchy of sociopaths.
I tried explaining this to my mom. She smiled, handed me her Kindle, and asked me to “put the next Vince Flynn book on it.” Mom just doesn’t get dragons, I guess. She understands that her reading list is, more or less, as narrow as mine. But what I don’t think she’ll ever acknowledge is that the worlds she escapes to are just as fantastical, albeit in less overt ways.
