Non Fiction Novel Novels & Stories

He was old school if he read a wide variety of the comics that inspired them. “That’s really cool,” she told him honestly. He smiled. “Not as cool as reading nonfiction for fun. That’s seriously impressive. I never read nonfiction unless it was for school.” “Fiction and nonfiction both have their places in terms of entertainment and how informative they are. I feel like fiction does a better job of overall explaining the human condition and how people tick than nonfiction does because of the variety of characters’ emotions and motivations.” “That makes sense. I suppose there are psychology textbooks but those are clinical and often use terms laypeople can’t understand.”

The publication brought a different kind of response than the previous books. The Inside Account had been received as literary non-fiction—the intelligent essay collection that used the form of the journal entry to explore questions of attention and observation and the construction of the self through time. The reviews had praised the quality of the prose, the precision of the observations, the unusual structure that allowed Ernest's journal entries to be read as both personal document and philosophical argument. The book had found its audience slowly, through word of mouth, through people giving it to people they knew would understand it, through the kind of reception that built over months

Some of them read multiple times judging by the cracking of the binding. History. Military strategy. Economics. Law. Psychology. Philosophy. One entire shelf of biographies of powerful men across different centuries and continents. And then something that surprised me. Fiction. A whole section of it tucked into the far corner like something private. Novels. Some of them old enough that the titles had faded. I pulled one out carefully. A Russian novel. Thick. Dense. The kind of book that required patience and silence and the willingness to sit inside discomfort for extended periods.

Sprinted to the door, I pulled it open, not expecting it to open, but it did, causing my heart to swell in joy. Ambling to the shelf, my eyes darted round the various book covers. Fiction was my favorite book to read because the best thing about reading was to be able to escape from your life, to be able to read hundreds or even thousands of other lives. Non-fiction does not have that power, it does not change you the way fiction does. To me, if you are not affected somehow, even if it is the slightest change, you are not reading the right book. I would love to think that every novel I have read has become a part of me and created who I am in a sense.

Instead of facing his own demon, Sabrina's father took his own life in front of his family, scarring his own daughter for life. Being a non-fiction novelist, most of my stories are about people’s experiences. I collect facts through research and interviews, then retell the stories through books. My stories, in turn, memorialize their contributions in life and highlight their suffering and pain. This way, they shall be remembered and hopefully, their story helps someone along the way, someone who currently faces these difficulties.

Because of this, I would like to point out that this story is not for the weak of stomach or faint of heart. You’d expect to find a story like this in the fiction aisle of your brick and mortar bookstore instead of the non-fiction section where it truly belongs, and that’s okay with me. In fact, I prefer it. It makes it easier to tell a story that I find unbelievable even though I lived through it when it’s formatted and touted as fictitious. I feel free sharing the details under the guise of make believe.

“I hope so. Maybe a good book, too.” “Nonfiction or fiction?” He turned and faced her. “On vacation? Fiction. Before bed, non-fiction.” “Why non-fiction before bed?” “I like the fiction books too much. I won’t sleep. I have to know what the next chapter is. Does the dragon devour the town? Do the aliens win? How does the pauper become a prince? What about you?” the man asked. “Fiction or non-fiction?” “Fiction. I am a sucker for a good romance. And Dr. Seuss, of course, but that’s more on a professional level.”

he wiggled his brows at me and snorted and I shook my head. "Is it about your author friend?" I asked and he nods. "Yes! There's something intriguing about her story" he said and I raised a brow at him. "Don't tell me you're brooding over a fictional story that someone wrote" I chuckled. "It's not a fictional book. It's non-fiction and the story is quite touching". "Since when did you become a softy over books being read?" I asked still amused. "Is not really the matter of being a softy dumbass. I just find the story similar to what happened to you".

"What do you know about werewolves Janette?" The topic elicits a pang of hunger in me and I blink. What do I know about werewolves? Only the smuttiest, most mind-blowing things ever. "I've read some books on them." "Fiction or nonfiction?" I blink again and take some time to consider. Is there really a nonfiction side to werewolves? Aren't they just a creation of the mind? "All the books I've read on them are novels, mostly in the fiction section. I don't think there's anything nonfictional about werewolves."

The specific and particular history of people who had been present at large events and had not been the people the large events were usually said to be about. She read novels. The novels were harder to characterize. They were not genre novels and not literary novels in the specific and self-conscious way of novels that were aware of being literary. They were simply good novels, or what appeared, from the evidence of the way she held them, the specific and attentive quality of a woman who was genuinely inside a book rather than processing it, to be good novels. She had read one I recognized. She had read several I did not.