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I'm constantly amazed at the power of fiction. You can sit there reading a book or watching a film, and while you know full well that it's only story, it can become more real and more important than anything in the world. Sometimes your surroundings fall away and that fictional world is all there is. Maybe you have to put the book down and head off to do something else, but that world and its characters can plant deep tendrils in your mind, constantly trying to drag you away from what you're doing. Sometimes, after closing a book, the world seems different - more magical, more dark, more sober... less real... more real.
I still clearly remember the days after I emerged from works of fiction that grabbed my emotions in a special way. I have a clear memory of a moment at my grandma's house one Christmas when I was child, emerging from a dreams about The Lord of the Rings, overwhelmed with awe and with love for it. I remember shelving picture books some 13 years ago, at the height of my X-Files addiction, and suddenly realising that I'd sat there for 20 minutes, staring into space, lost in my thoughts about the previous night's episode. I remember finishing A Storm of Swords, and being so desperate for the next book that I didn't think I could get through the days. I remember finishing The Lymond Chronicles, then going away for New Year, lost in the world, barely noticing where I was. And I know I will remember last night, and I want to remember it, so am posting about it here, even though I'll be embarrassed afterwards, even though it will be of no interest to anyone else.
( Really not a spoiler for the last Inda book, but behind a cut in case anyone has any plans to read it and doesn't want to hear about another reader's emotional reaction )
(Note: Although I've used "you" and "we" and "us", I am, of course, aware that I'm not speaking for the whole human race, and that many people don't experience fiction in this way.)
I still clearly remember the days after I emerged from works of fiction that grabbed my emotions in a special way. I have a clear memory of a moment at my grandma's house one Christmas when I was child, emerging from a dreams about The Lord of the Rings, overwhelmed with awe and with love for it. I remember shelving picture books some 13 years ago, at the height of my X-Files addiction, and suddenly realising that I'd sat there for 20 minutes, staring into space, lost in my thoughts about the previous night's episode. I remember finishing A Storm of Swords, and being so desperate for the next book that I didn't think I could get through the days. I remember finishing The Lymond Chronicles, then going away for New Year, lost in the world, barely noticing where I was. And I know I will remember last night, and I want to remember it, so am posting about it here, even though I'll be embarrassed afterwards, even though it will be of no interest to anyone else.
( Really not a spoiler for the last Inda book, but behind a cut in case anyone has any plans to read it and doesn't want to hear about another reader's emotional reaction )
(Note: Although I've used "you" and "we" and "us", I am, of course, aware that I'm not speaking for the whole human race, and that many people don't experience fiction in this way.)
