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The fiction addiction

The fiction addiction is taking over my house again. For a while, I had everything under control. Books were on shelves, where they belonged, except for two or three that I was reading or re-reading. Then my friend Suzan came over and lent me a stack of good reads. Then I hit a bookstore on Mother’s Day and bought a few more. The end table began to disappear under a load of books.

I went to the library with my fifteen-year-old. I told myself I couldn’t check out any books because of the stack sitting at home. Yeah, right. I left the library with seven. My son checked out nine, although his bedroom floor was already littered with books.

One of my son’s older friends from church stopped by and stumbled upon the litter—literally stumbled, probably, since they’re all over the floor—and the two of them plunged into an intense discussion of what they’ve read lately. There’s quite an age gap between these guys, but they’re on the same page when it comes to enjoying a good story.

I was happy to see their camaraderie, but I wish I saw it more often in that generation. Not many of the 20- and 30-somethings in our church seem very interested in fiction. They tackle some heavy non-fiction, including Christian classics that cover way more theology than I figure I need, but they steer away from fiction. Especially CBA fiction. Maybe it’s because they’re too busy to read much, and they think only non-fiction is worth their time. Or maybe CBA fiction, on the whole, is written to please a different demographic. A 60-year-old Sunday School teacher in Peoria, for instance. I don’t know.

But I’m glad there are at least a few young guys out there who are addicted to good fiction. One day, I hope they and their wives will read thousands of bedtime stories to their own kids and never, ever scold them for a floor littered with books.

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