It’s okay to read real stories and get moved by them. It’s okay to cry over the tragedy, laugh over the comedy, judge the characters, sympathise with the victims of a certain crime and wish they got justice. It’s okay to curse the bad guys and wish nemesis caught up with them soon.
But when I read fiction and do the same, I laugh at my pointless emotional display. Why should I? There should be a limit to the emotions I feel during the reading process.
I’ve tried not to cry, I’ve tried tapping my heart on the back while it raced during suspension and had said to it, do not take things here seriously. Its all made up- it’s all from the head of the writer.
Yet, I still get thrilled, suspended, horrified captivated and more. I still end up thanking God it ended well. I still shed real tears at the tragedy. I still say to one of the characters, Oh Mary, I’m so disappointed in you. Never knew you could behave that way. Never knew you could be so stupid. I trusted you.
Here is that thing about fiction- the thin line between fiction and non-fiction is often blurred, almost overlapped by the fact that fiction has some element of reality to it. It’s often derived from reality. This thin line is further obscured by the fact that work of imagination can bring about significant conclusion about truth and reality. It’s no wonder people watch a fictitious movie on the screen and go home with teary eyes for example. They dab their eyes with handkerchiefs and sometimes wail.
Fiction writers are brave and good enough to impact the readers.
They write it, they tell you it’s simple work of fiction and then turn around and make you unconsciously feel that it actually happened.