I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m literature damaged. I get very confused by real people, and this is why: I grew up reading books. Now, in many ways reading books is good for a young
person because it expands horizons and increases empathy. Reading allows us to engage imaginatively with other people’s lives, and to get better at imagining all by ourselves all the many things that
could be going on for someone else, and books teach us that most people don’t think and feel exactly as we do. All of this is good and useful.
But here’s the problem. Characters in books have motives. They have reasons. Sometimes they are driven by those reasons to do extraordinary or terrible things – this is a big part of where plots come from. Also characters in books usually know what they are doing and why. Clues as to intentions, motives, feelings and so forth will be skilfully inserted into dialogue and the description of action so that the canny reader can pick up on this and spot things ahead of time.
Hands up everyone who spotted how emotionally unstable Snape became every time he made eye contact with Harry Potter. Hands up if you linked this to Harry having his mother’s eyes. Getting to feel a bit clever about this sort of thing, is one of the great joys of reading books.
Real people. Real people say things they haven’t thought about. They do things and have no idea why. Go round reading subtext into the words and actions of real people, and there’s nothing but confusion in store. Real people don’t always have motives and a grand plan, they aren’t working on a plot, and they have no idea why they just said that thing.
It drives me mad. There I am, literature damaged, looking for meanings and clues, for hidden messages and insights, surrounded by people who are largely unwilling to act like characters from a book. Perhaps this is why I like making up stories. It gives me at least some time when the people I’ve focused on make proper sense.
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