Novels And Fiction Novels & Stories

Soft rugs were scattered around in different shapes that were playful, comforting. Against the far wall, a reading nook had been built with shelves filled from top to bottom. Picture books for the little ones, novels of all kinds for the older ones. Damn near every topic that you could think of. Fiction, non-fiction, manga, history, lore, etc. A huge, cushioned bench wrapped along the windows, covered in pillows so fluffy even I wanted to curl up on them.

This is going to be nice, I just know it. I spend hours cooking, snacking, reading, and it feels like a dream. My fae romance novel takes me to a land that doesn’t resemble my life and I’m so happy to lose myself in it. I’m reading along happily when I come across a word that strikes me dead. Mates. Great. Just what I was trying to forget about. I put it down and pull out the other book I brought, a historical fiction novel. No mates here, no way. Dinnertime creeps around and I spend a while making a nice risotto with a side salad and garlic bread. It’s so good it borders on s*x.

“You should stop reading fiction books. They are just fiction. They don’t teach you anything worthwhile.” Iva smiled at him because she knew that he was upset due to her book-reading habit as she wouldn’t let him get close until she finished the book. “Non fiction does inform the mind, but fiction infiltrates it. One gives you the maps of the world, while the other lets you wander through many worlds from your home. You should try reading some fiction as it sparks original thinking, Dear.” “Pfft, original thinking? How?” Gareth turned his head and stared at her. “Give me one good example?”

“I can’t even imagine how many books are in here.” “Too many,” Leo replied with a faint chuckle. “Most of them are just for show. But there are a few I actually read.” “Let me guess,” Chloe teased. “Crime novels? Or maybe biographies of great leaders?” “Guilty,” he admitted in a warm voice. “And you?” “I always loved fiction,” she said, a wistful note creeping into her voice. “Fantasy, mostly. Stories about impossible worlds, where anything could happen.” “Maybe one day, you’ll pick one off the shelves here,” Leo said gently. “Who knows? You might find a new favourite.”

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.

"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."

“She’s the last person on my mind when I sleep and my first thought when I wake up. I miss her when I eat, study, sleep. I feel like crying loudly when I go into your bedroom and I see her empty space.” “Honey, but I’m trying my best to fulfill all your requirements. You know you’re my eldest daughter and I love you more than anyone” My dads eyes filled with tears as he spoke to me. “This huge mansion full of furniture and a 100 servants is still empty without mom. These fancy dresses and money can’t replace my mother.” I cried. “There’s no one to look after Anna and Zac. Anna is just 15 and Zac is 10. They need a mother. I totally agree that you’re trying your best and you love me the most

he replied simply, adjusting his glasses. I rolled my eyes. “You need help. Here—” I reached for one of the novels from the table beside me, one that was light and funny. “Try reading something that won’t make your brain combust.” He raised an eyebrow. “Fiction?” “Yes, fiction,” I said, placing it in his hand. “You know, made-up stories with emotions, imagination, and people who do ridiculous things for love?” He opened the first page, his expression unreadable. For the next few minutes, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the rustle of turning pages. Then, suddenly—

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.

“No that’s not what I’m saying at all, I’m asking what you know about fiction?” “You mean if I want to free a character from a story, I have to follow the rules of fiction.” “And what rules usually apply to fictional rescues from Hell?” “Wait, you said she was trapped in a story, not Hell.” “Both Heaven and Hell are stories that we tell ourselves. They’re ways of coping with our mortality and what comes after.” “I suppose you’re right, that’s why we tell tales about descents into the underworld isn’t it?” “Yes it is.”