Fiction

An e-mail I just sent the co-owner of an area bookstore that closed a few months ago:

""The Camel Bookmobile" by Masha Hamilton was I think the only novel I bought from [the store]. Everything else has been nonfiction. As a child I devoured novels, mostly series' such as Cam Jansen, the Boxcar Children and Thursday Next. College courses on international politics and journalism consumed me and I increasingly read current affairs: Friedman, Zakaria, Pollan. The only fiction I recall reading in the last year or so has been John Grisham.

Exhausted by all the informative, educational reading, I longed for lighter fare. But for some reason I just couldn't find fiction that hooked me. The first book I bought at [the store] was Ruth Reichl's "Garlic and Sapphires." It was a lovely, enjoyable read and I thought, maybe I don't need fiction to fill my narrative void.

But I did. After reading the first few pages of "The Camel Bookseller" in the store, I decided to take a chance and buy it. A couple days ago, I started reading it. I tried to savor it by reading it a chapter or two at a time instead of the normal one afternoon feast that defines my reading habits. This evening I couldn't help it and finished the remaining three-fourths of the book while curled up in a blanket.

My journalism classes last year focused on feature and narrative writing, so I've had no drought of good prose. But drinking in this fiction, noticing its techniques, yet not thinking about anything but the story, was pure bliss. Better yet, the story made me think about our world in the same way the non-fiction did, only in a much more compelling and subtle manner.

So, for that, I want to say thank you. Thank you for reminding me how important it is to just bask in the pleasure of reading a book instead of always thinking that I have to learn something from reading. Obviously that inevitably happens, but sometimes all we need is an armchair adventure."