Raw reality. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve wasted my time if I read a book and the author is a fake. I mean, I get enough of that in life. Everyone is always trying to shield their identity from you, people are afraid of sharing their true selves with anyone. If I wanted someone to bullshit me, I’d have them do it to my face. To me, books are about truth. They’re about all the things you wouldn’t or couldn’t ever say out loud. Books are the vulnerable reality that none of us have the guts to live in. I don’t read to escape reality, I read to discover it. I’ll sit through a painstakingly dramatic movie if I can believe the emotions. Nothing upsets me more than poor acting and deceitful books.
The people I feel closest to in life are the ones who own up to their personality, the people who know who they are and are unapologetically so. Of course, if you’re an unapologetic dick then, I probably won’t want to get to know you. But if you know that you’re a dick, and you know why you’re a dick and you’re sincerely trying to change your dick ways, I support that. I love seeing a person who knows they’re fucked up but they’re still marching, or trudging, crawling… slithering, it’s not the motion that matters, its the progression. Some people choose to salsa through the hard parts, step forward, step together, step back, step together, step right, step together, step left, step together, step forward, etc. It doesn’t matter how you get there, it only matters that you keep moving.
I read books to learn how people move. I want to know what it was that made them step back and where they found the courage to step forward. I want to know what was in their peripherals and what made those things, people or goals less important than their focus. I want to know how they felt every step of the way, if they laughed, and how hard. If they cried, what for? I want to know if they hit rock bottom and if it was made out of granite, or coal or diamonds. I want to know why they climbed back up and if they were wounded in the process. I want to know their vices, and how they got rid of them, or if they took over. I want to know who won in the end, if anyone at all. A good book should be able to make anyone cry. Because everyone has felt some way, some time, for some person, or place; everyone longs, hopes, cares and despairs. And I bet we all do it a little differently, but it feels very similar.