It’s not you, Nonfiction, it’s me.

The first few times we met I had these butterflies in my stomach. You were so unlike any book I had read before. At first I loved your clever covers, your cool book jackets. You always look so great in glasses and with your backpack, and I read all those rave Amazon reviews from your adoring masses. If all of those people love you, surely they must know something, surely I am missing out if I don’t read you too. 

I was really unsure about us at first – I didn’t think you would be interested in a girl like me. But as I got to know you, I loved all of the new perspectives you brought and the examples you gave me. I have always been attracted to Fiction, but I knew I was excited to get to know you better. You have so much to teach, so much for me to explore about work, history, finance, news, current events, self-help…your knowledge is unending and frankly, a little intimidating sometimes. But I have always been drawn to a challenge. Most of the other books I’ve loved have all been so different from you, the rebels with their made-up stories. I’ve always gravitated towards the non-conformists, the ones who pull us into their worlds that don’t exist, addicting us to characters that don’t exist, to lives we envy, to people we love…and mourn…and hate…that don’t exist. But you were different, you with your research and narrative based on facts. 

You have been so patient with me, Nonfiction, letting me learn about you at my own pace, allowing me to pick which topics my fickle brain has been interested in. You let me flip through your pages, looking for bold headers and graphs. You allowed me to skip to the end, never really reading all of your content in full. I bought glasses, and bigger glasses still. I bought wine glasses too. It didn’t help. I tried, Nonfiction. I really, really tried. But if I’m being honest I have to tell you that my heart belongs with Fiction. I will read, and read, and read all hours of the night with Fiction. I’ll stay up late when I should be sleeping. I’ll procrastinate and finish another chapter when I should be working. I’ll hide on my back deck and read with Fiction when I should be getting the kids ready for bed. The passion is too strong, the desire runs too deep. I am addicted and I can never leave Fiction.

If you let me, I’ll still flip through your pages. I’ll still read your bold headers and admire your covers and your literary reviews. You will forever hold a place on my beside table, collecting minimal dust while the novels fly ahead of you in quick succession. I can’t live in your truth every day, I need the stories that Fiction brings in order to live, in order to breathe. I promise not to leave you alone for too long, just know in my heart of hearts that it’s me. It’s me, Nonfiction, and not you.