Fiction Over Fear
The other day I was asked, as an author, what I thought the point of reading fiction was? It is indeed a question that has left me flummoxed at times, and at others, has flopped around in my mind like a dead fish, wondering whether the endeavor of creating imaginary rabbit trails has a viable purpose in a world of concretes. Concrete ideas, concrete structures — there are real facets of life to touch, real people to study, and real problems to solve. This man, who shall remain nameless, gave me the hypothetical challenge of explaining why fiction is just as important to the literary canon as non-fiction. His own opinions erred on the line dividing fiction from non-fiction, impartial and appreciative; however, the question itself has since worn its way into the very ethos of why I am a writer, and on a deeper level, why I am who I am. And therefore, that means the answer to his question also has the inevitable consequence of shaping why you are who you are.
Enter the depths of a new thriller (a project of mine) for a moment: your heroine, a freshly-minted adult of just eighteen, her childhood scarred by the loss of not just a brother, but her mother too. Set against the fear of losing everyone dear to her and a civil war that’s descending upon her homeland, she has far greater problems to contend with than mere fear. How will she manage the looming wall of pressures that is her existence? Will she survive tumultuous geopolitics and the tremors of her own heart? What will you—the reader—go through alongside her? Or, consider a classic work, 1984 by George Orwell. Winston, the central figure, lives in a futuristic world crushed under the oppressive thumb of an all-powerful government. He dares to desire more, to want his own thoughts, his own experiences, and his own meaning, but in near-destitution and under a system of surveillance meant to suppress these wishes with all-encompassing fear and submission, every inch he takes back is one of vast risk. How does Winston fight? How would you respond in his situation?
In these works, and in thousands of others, fear is the internal devil, the plot device working to screw up every characters’ best laid intentions and plans. Likewise, as living, breathing humans, we often fall victim to the same devilish snare. Fears of love and loss, of risk and safety, of an unknown future combined with the weight of past curses can strangle us into the paralysis of inaction and the debilitation of wordlessness. Power in life is gone the moment bravery rolls over and surrenders to fear’s marauding onslaught.
Power is gone the moment bravery rolls over and surrenders to fear . . .
Time and time again in life, before I understood the value of a good book, I saw pages telling treacherous stories that felt like truth, and somehow, for some reason, I wanted to inhabit them. While I abjectly knew these characters were the victims of many authors’ devious minds (and I render the same dirty crimes on my characters now), I couldn’t shake my desire to be like them, to go with them into their horrible worlds for a chance to make life better. These people were brave, and I knew I wanted to be like that, even if I couldn’t fathom how or why.
These people were brave, and I knew I wanted to be like them.
But one day, as I saw myself standing in print between yellowed pages, a typewriter key clicked, and I understood what I’d spent over a decade of life absorbing without a second thought. When readers see themselves wrapped in the hazards of fictional pitfalls, they find new pieces of themselves, new strengths and powers. Readers understand: books read are adventures gone on, and in your life, on your adventure, you’ll one day face the same dragons as your literary heroes, albeit wrapped in different skins and costuming. Just like characters careening across pages, you too could face rejection, failure, regret, shame, disease, abandonment, heartbreak, loss, and pain—both physical and mental—in short, the tortures humans try to shy away from in whatever ways possible. Like every pumping heart on this planet, the people in books possess passions and loves, families and friends, plans and goals, beliefs and desires. In them we see determination and grit, obstinance even, and most of all, a burning commitment to hang on to every good thing. You too work to maintain your grip on life, trying to keep it from spinning wildly out of control into a tornado of horrible doom, just as literary characters use their every last tendon to hold fast.
Yet inevitably, in life and in literature, something’s going to snap—whether that be tendon or plans, a mere river rushing or a dam bursting free. There’s no such thing as perfect. There’s only the way in which we react, and literature has shaped me in such a way that I now value bravery and courage as the highest of reactions. These virtues stand in stubborn opposition to fear and its tandem vice, control. For when we cannot control, we fear. And the unknown, which is beyond our realm of command, often leaves us strangled in chains of worries, for we do not know what the dark, obscured night might rend on the things and people we love most. Our blessings thus come saddled with paralyzing terrors; they are sweetnesses that have ripened too long, seeping into the heart with poison darts and ivy thorns. It’s a lesson of literary proportions. For whatever takes the highest throne in the mind is what we fear losing the most. The same holds true for our beloved characters. What we esteem entangles us. It ensnares us in the trap of control, and should that control lapse, our knuckles have broken and the dams truly have all burst: fear has now flooded in, over, and through in a raging torrent. Victory over circumstances, whatever they may be, suddenly seems impossible. How can goodness be reclaimed in the face of an emotion of such assured danger and pain?
Whatever takes the highest throne in the mind is what we fear losing the most.
The answer is that singular quality eight-year-old reader me was endlessly fascinated by: courage. It is the one virtue by which all virtues are made possible. As such, it is the virtue we wield to overcome the warrior of fear. With fear’s fighting sphere standing so large and unyielding, it is surely an opponent worthy of this strongest value. But practicing courage roots deep into our personalities as humans, far deeper than just a weapon with which to ward off mortal wounds to our souls and spirits. Without courage, the exercise of our moral muscles—our kindness, our patience, our generosity, and so on—would be a great difficulty. You see, speaking on behalf of a just cause forces us into battle. It’s not natural to be vocal about what is unpopular and troubling; rather, the natural response is to slip into the abyss of fear and silence. Likewise, reaching out to a stranger, unbeknownst to their reaction, takes an act of everyday courage. Even attending a new social event, a common plot in novels, is an occasion that requires healthy doses of moxie and spunk (also known as bravery for introverts). Furthermore, for souls struggling under the weight of despair or mental illness, daily daunting leaps of bravery are survival necessities. They’re leaps that may seem too large and too far, like maybe one day you’ll take the plunge and just won’t survive. But you can.
Courage . . . the virtue by which all virtues are made possible.
You see, it takes a radical act of courage to step into any of these unknowns—unknowns we hope have goodness lying beyond them. Yet without this most vital of values, we’ll never know. We’re stymied from reaching our full potential as people, trapped inside fear’s prison. I couldn’t dream to understand this at eight, nine, or even eleven, but now as an author, I see this instillment of moral fortitude as both an imperative in my work and as a requisite takeaway for any fiction reader. We read characters for the development of character. What we learn about fear and its inverse, courage, from reading works of literature gives us tools to overcome the nemesis fear is to our own everyday acts of heroism.
We read characters for the development of character.
This choice to read and absorb is a first antidote to fighting a vast world plagued by hesitancy and complacency. For one’s outlook can be changed by taking steps toward the life of the brave, the life that’s been laid out in pages upon pages of scenarios we never dream of encountering. Because that’s all we truly have before us: one step, then the next, then the next. We don’t know the end, but we have desires, gifts, and an understanding of right, the tools and books necessary to walk into an unknown future armed with the conviction of courage, the weapon of fortitude, and the covering of a certain confidence. So let’s take a step—the first step into boldness—inspired by the trajectories of a thousand paper saints. We can go so much further than fiction.
Hello, I’m Anaiah! Welcome to my corner of the internet! I’m a writer, editor, and creative who is endlessly fascinated by people, books, beauty, and words—looking at life and its adventures through the lens of the hope Christ has for us. I work with poetry, devotionals, and fiction and love exploring the introspective, the emotional, the beautiful, and the questions life leaves us all facing. I hope you enjoy!
