The other day I met a lady who had been a professor of
journalism at a prestigious Ivy League University. She knew I was an
author, so we struck up a conversation. Her first question to me was, “My dear,
what is it that you write?” To which I replied, “Fantasy fiction.” Her face
contorted a bit before she replied, “Oh, I don’t read fiction. It doesn’t
capture my imagination.”
I was dumbfounded, and I must confess, I found her statement
to be a bit oxymoronic for what is fiction, especially fantasy, except the
outpouring of someone’s imagination. As the conversation progressed she
admitted she only read news articles, biographies and the like. I cannot
comprehend spending a life without Tolkien or Shelley or Kenyon or the myriad of
other fiction writers that have come before.
Finally, our conversation came to close and we exchanged the
normal pleasantries. She told me that she was sure my book was rather wonderful,
and she was sorry she would never get to read it. Since, as she stated multiple
times, she did not read fiction. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry too. Not
because she would never read my book, but because she had never read anything
she considered to be fiction, and at the age of 81, she probably never would.
