I have often wondered why I shudder when passing the self-help section at the book store. I actually feel horrified at the thought of reading about my own psychosis. Why would anyone subject themselves to therapy through a book! Go to a therapist for C.O.L! At least there you’ll get some social interaction and can actually talk out what’s wrong with you.
I seem to be the same way with religious practice and theory books. I have a stack of them in my nightstand and I pass right by them every time I am looking for another book to read.
And now, that I’m on a roll, let me just admit that I hate reading history books, biographies, travel logs and autobiographies. These are usually written by terrible, unpracticed, dry, lethargic anthropologist types who wouldn’t know a stunning sentence if it grabbed him by his facial hair.
There. I think I’ve figured it out. I hate reading stuff that’s boring. No, that’s not quite it. I love Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickins and Elizabeth Gaskell. And most people think staring at a blank wall is more invigorating.
In addition to non-fiction being boring and poorly-written most of the time, I think my issues with non-fiction is that it has too much to do with reality. And reading, for me, is about escaping my own reality. And the reality of the people in my world. I deal with those people all throughout my day, so escaping them for even just a 1/2 hour a day is magical.
Give me Science Fiction, Historical Fiction, British Literature, Contemporary Literature, Classical Literature, Poetry, Religious Fiction. I will read anything – just mix in a little lies with a little truth and you have perfectly baked literary souffle.