Non-fiction That Reads Like Fiction Novels & Stories

“What’s your hobby?” “Do I have one?” I raised a question. “Well, everyone does. You must have something you truly enjoy doing,” “Hmmm… reading?” My brows creased. “Yes. That must be it. I love reading,” “What type of books are you into? Fiction? Nonfiction? Magazines? BL…” “Fiction,” I asserted, cutting him short. “Especially romance. It helps me live in the world I could only desire to live in with Jeremy. The kind of love and affection I crave exists only in fiction,”

"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 flowers and the greenery looked so inviting; I was beginning to forget the scent of nature and the feeling of the breeze on my skin and in my hair. I turned to the long shelf to find something to read to help pass the time. But most of the books were biological journals and some other non-fiction. And I wanted to read fiction; maybe some lying on pages and dreamy characters could help with the boredom. I roamed through the shelves carefully looking for something. Just when I thought the search was going to be harder, I found a few and decided to read the one with the prettiest covers. The book was so interesting; I didn’t know fiction was so good. I never really gave them a chance becaus

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.

I want to write. The clarity of the understanding was physical, almost like an impact. Not an autobiography—not memories sold as a trauma spectacle for public consumption. Not the clinical account of a survivor so others could learn lessons. Fiction. Worlds created from scratch with their own rules, inhabitants who could bleed and love and break and rebuild without the world pointing at me and saying this happened to her.

People just exaggerate about the existence of these creatures until now, which would be just ridiculous if I were to be asked. I scanned through more books. Though I'm not an avid reader, seeing all these books in front of me, I couldn't help but want to read them all. They all seemed to hold some kind of history that I just feel interested in. This is a first for me, though because I prefer reading about celebrities rather than reading about some fairy tales and history which are not proven to be true. I was so immersed, going through the books, that I did not notice when someone stood behind me.

The books with broken spines. He was not at all who she'd thought he was. He was so much more complicated than she'd thought he was. "You have a lot of books," she said, moving to the shelves. "I read." "Obviously. What do you read?" "Whatever's in front of me." He came toward her with the water, which she took. "History, mostly. Architecture. Some fiction, if it doesn't waste my time." "What does wasting your time look like in fiction?" "Characters who are foolish for plot reasons rather than for human ones."

I couldn’t help but smile. He squinted his eyes at me. “Ah, you know something that I don’t.” “Know what?” My smile widened. “At least, you share my frustration. It’s a good book, right?” “Yes. One of the great books I’ve read.” “I don’t even know if you read.” He smiled sadly. “One thing only a few people know about me, but yeah, I read.” “What’s your genre?” “Thriller, mystery, nonfiction. But Midnight is a mix of—"

Draynon nodded and opened the book. He leafed through the book until he found the chapter that he was looking for. “Here we go. Now this was roughly 120 years ago, or four generations. It’s not so much a history book, but written similar to a novel to make the facts easier for the reader to remember, rather than just bombarding them with endless seeming names and numbers.” He coughed once to clear his throat and began reading from the book.

“Of course not. It’s just a house . . . my house, as you said.” “I can’t believe it. You’re Mr. Horror, and you don’t believe in ghosts? How is that even possible?” “Okay, Bias, I’m going to blow your mind with one hell of a revelation about writers and their stories. I’m pretty sure Lewis Carroll never fell down a rabbit hole into a magical Wonderland; it doesn’t seem likely that Anne Rice believes in vampires; and I highly doubt J.K. Rowling has met any real wizards. That’s what makes it fiction and not nonfiction.”