I fall in love with fictitious characters on a daily basis. I’m not even going to pretend that I’m a mature woman, who only reads intellectually challenging novels, that broaden by mind-scape and make me question moral choices. You know, books that really make you think. Sure, I love a book that stays with me for days, just floating outside of my peripheral vision, haunting me – due to how perfectly it explained or described something. At those times, I am so grateful to the author(s), as it gives me hope – hope that there are like-minded individuals out there, even if I won’t ever get to meet them and share in their literary Wonderland alongside them, at least I’ve gotten to store a piece of their wonder inside my head.
But this isn’t about how wonderous the minds of my favourite authors are, this is about fictitious characters that are slowly ruining my life. In a good way.
I find myself reading about these characters, that were born inside someone else’s mind and I feel genuinely sad, because these characters do not exist. I will only ever get to solve crimes with Logan ‘Lazarus’ McRae while reading Stuart MacBride’s books. I will only ever get to mentally cheer Tyrion on, or shout abuse at Jon Snow (he annoys me, okay?). I find myself wanting so much more than just the words on paper (or screen, I am pro-Kindle, so bite me). I want to be alongside my favourite character, encouraging them, perhaps ruffling their hair. Pouring them a glass of wine, giving them ‘come-to-bed-eyes’…I mean…encouraging them to solve crimes, save people, and whatever other junk they get up to…that’s absolutely, 100% what I meant.
Swiftly moving on…
I’m not the only one, right? I get lost inside these books, I become friends with these fictitious characters, I feel every single blow to them, I feel their sadness, their happiness. I don’t become the character in a book, I don’t try to replace the character with me…I just want to be written into the book, alongside the character’s, just so I can bask in their brilliance. Because these fictitious characters are more real to me, than actual people are. I understand these damned fictitious characters, I can empathise with them. Actual people? I’m clueless. Maybe this is why I spend 95% of my life reading, because that’s pretty much the only time I feel…accepted, normal. And…it’s all just words on paper…which makes me kind of sad.
Maybe what I really want is to live inside the authors heads…
You may be a figment of someone’s imagination translated to text, but I love you regardless.