I love it “so far”

I’m re-reading (technically re-listening) to a favorite book (Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall if you must know) and I’m at that part in the book where it’s all going to go to shit. I know it’s going to happen, not just because I’ve read the story before (more than once, to tell the truth), but also because every story ever has a part where it all goes to hell. By continuing on with the story, I’m taking my emotions on a ten-mile slog through the mud and then denying them food and water. For a treat afterwards, I’ll shoot them out back.

There are no surprises here. I’ve already experienced the book before. I’m so proud of the one character (Luc) for eventually doing the right thing and get so mad at the other (Oliver) for not recognizing what he needs to do to be happy. And I’m poised, waiting. A bit scared to keep listening.

I’m going to be wrecked. I’m going to hurt.

And I know this.

I don’t even feel like I’m posting a spoiler because, uh, this happens in every book.

Over and over again, every time I read, I go through the part of the book where it all gets ruined. Relationships. Family dynamics. Sense of self. Emotions. Whatever.

I notice a lot of times people will post a status saying that they are loving a book “so far.” They can’t wholly commit to loving the experience of a book they haven’t finished because they are (perhaps) scared of this part of the book. The part where it all goes to shit. They are scared that it’s all going to change.

But in all the good books, it does.

So, as I pause the audiobook to write my blog for the day, I’m here wondering why I wring myself through this emotional pasta machine over and over again.

Voluntarily.

For fun.

Because it’s really kind of painful.

Am I a weird sadist?

After all, I could skip it. I’m not speaking of skipping reading altogether, although I know I could, for example, not read and instead watch kids playing Ozzy on marimbas. Rather, I could save myself the pain by fast forwarding through the bad parts to get to the good. To get to the happy ever after.

Part of me wants to.

Because I’ve smiled more times reading this book than I have in days, and I could hold onto that good feeling by just leaping to the end, ignoring the crap part. (Not crap as in poorly written. Crap as in the characters are on the outs. Also, not CRAPP as in the anacronym for the dung beetle charity in the book. You’d have to read it to get the joke, which I heartily recommend.)

But honestly there’s no way I’ll fast forward even though this part tears out my heart. It feels like cheating myself of the experience somehow. Like I need to wade through the tough part before I can celebrate the amazing part.

Is this silly?

Probably not. After all, my wise self tells me that without contrast we cannot know what we prefer. So, logically (funny that I turn to logic about an emotional event), I get it that as a reader I need to know how bad it can be before I can enjoy the good. Before lessons can be learned, souls mended, and hearts joined.

But from a broader perspective, I sit back and wonder why I get all worked up about fiction. After all, this is someone else’s story. A real author I don’t know who wrote about people who aren’t even real.

Worse, as I’ve said, I know what’s going to happen. Both specifically in this story and in general in all stories.

Am I keeping on simply because this book makes me break out into unadulterated grins? Repeatedly? And I’ll torture myself during the low parts because the high parts are so high?

In other words, do I keep reading it because I trust that eventually my emotions will be allowed to come in for the night after their death march and take a shower and get some sleep? I’ll feed them and care for them, and I’ll soon enough be happy again. Or perhaps in an even better position?

Probably.

But I don’t think that tells the whole, uh, story.

What is it about stories that draws me back again and again?

I know part of it is that I love, for lack of a better word, imagination. I love getting lost in the world of a story. Meeting the characters, like old friends or new, and going through their days with them. Laughing with them. Celebrating with them.

Suffering with them.

I suppose that another basic answer is that stories tell us things about ourselves. I am both Luc and his lack of self-confidence and Oliver with his, uh, lack of self confidence in another way. I’m searching for the same things that these characters are searching for, and in the ways that the characters are different than me—like Luc and his jokes, which I don’t tell because I’m only funny about once a month or so—I experience something new.

So, perhaps I read because I love to fall in love. I love to experience more worlds than just my own. And I want that emotional rollercoaster because I trust that I will be all the better for having gone through it.

In that case, the low parts are to be loved just as much as the high.

I hope to never say I’m loving a book “so far.” Because even if it all goes to shit—as it must do—I’ll love it still.

What do you think? Do you have any insight on why we read even if it hurts?