I’ve always been a re-reader.  But this summer especially has seemed to be one of old favorites.

Today I finished re-reading Little Women by Louisa May Alcott for the umpteenth time, and it still made me cry.  I can’t tell you how many times I read this book when I was little, and I distinctly remember crying over you-know-what part the first two times I read it.  But this was my first visit to Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy since I’ve actually experienced death, in “real” life.

I swear that books–that the power of stories and the comfort of the written word–are what got me through “the valley of shadow” in one piece.  The first thing I did after my grandpa died was shut myself in my bedroom and read The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien.

This is a huge reason why I believe in reading fiction.

“Made up” characters can sympathize sometimes when “real” ones can’t; and living some things through a novel (or a movie) is better experience than most people seem to give it credit for.

I remember standing in the bathroom washing my hands, right after I finished reading Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, looking at myself in the mirror, and bursting into giggles from sheer contentedness.  I reasoned that from a strictly bookworm-ish point of view, I had just gotten engaged, and could therefore give myself grace to be a bit giddy.

The characters in my favorite books are family, and I can’t see them as anything else.  They have taught me more than almost any nonfiction, and they make me a stronger, braver, kinder person.  And that is why I believe in reading fiction.

That is why I will not stop talking about books.