Bookish Friends

This past weekend I went to a bookstore with my family and browsed for longer than they wanted and not as much as I did. As we were leaving, my son asked whether I had enjoyed my playdate. It made me pause for a moment, but I could not refute the basic sentiment. My friends are found within the pages of the books I love and, frankly, the ones I am still flirting with on the not-read-yet shelf. This is not to say I don’t have real, flesh-and-blood friends, but the ones who live on the page are among my favorite. I cannot lie.

I am a somewhat typical writer/reader, I think. Somewhat a recluse, though not completely. The condition is not even self-diagnosed. I have proof. On the Myers-Briggs test, which I have taken three times in my life, I have consistently scored 49 out of 50 as an introvert.

I am not a social creature. At least not with the living. But in the world of fiction, I am gregarious, open and a traveler of worlds. I am bold and engaged.

My fictional friends are constant and true. They have seen me through childhood, tumultuous teen years, young adulthood and whatever you want to call where I am now. I am certain they will be there through my golden years too. It is the gift all readers receive. Friends for life. No matter what.

It is also a gift given by writers.

It is our responsibility to create characters that will befriend our readers or, at the least, elicit strong reactions. We do this by writing characters with depth and purpose. Characters that readers can connect to and forge a relationship within the world we create, whether it is a relationship of love or hate.

It is the emotional response and connection we must create.

I try to keep this sense of connection in mind when I am writing. Admittedly, it causes a wee bit of stress, but it also motivates. It also gives me purpose.

I think it’s important for all writers to have a sense of purpose. It is too easy to minimize what we do as fluffy and unimportant.

Then again, that might just be me. My family liked to refer to me as the fluffy-studies child growing up. My siblings were the serious ones. It bothered me for years that what I was doing with my life didn’t matter. It was just made up. Stories. I wasn’t saving the world or even a life. I was playing with words.

I don’t make that mistake any more. Words matter. Stories can change lives. They count. Whether it is fiction or nonfiction, it has weight and power.

Why it took me so long to figure this out baffles me.

Books have always been my comfort. The security blanket that got me through tough times. Without books and music, my life would have turned out differently. Darker, I think.
Today I indulge my love by writing and reading as much as I can. I caress my books as I pass them. I spin stories in my head whenever possible. And I intend to plan more playdates in the future. Ones where I can stay as long as I need without any distractions or obligations. I highly recommend them.