By Hailey Hechtman for The 44 North
Contributing Writer
“It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.”
I’m curled up on the couch, a book in my hand, blanket over my outstretched legs, a cup of tea on my side table, and music playing off the T.V. with some digitally rendered image of a bookstore in New York City.
I feel present for one of the few moments in my day.
Every other second, my mind is occupied with the rustling, restless thoughts that come with being a person in 2026; the distractions of the world and my day taking hold of the little attention I can muster up these days. Yet, for those hours enthralled in a story—with a central or series of characters that I don’t need to rescue, a setting that feels distant yet familiar, a plot I can follow and fumble through with the urge to know yet not the need to fix—I’m captivated.
Sometimes it’s a thick literary fiction spanning decades of family saga or interweaving relationships; others, it’s a historical reimagining, inviting me into the point of view of someone long lost or never having lived at all, in a time that I can only picture through the page. In other cases, it’s a translated work, cultivating insight into a cultural perspective that feels emotionally close yet contextually distant. In rare cases, on an evening of deep freeze in January, it’s a fantasy—complete with mystical creators, lands imposing and impossible.
Genre aside, it’s the act of escape into these spaces between pages that gives me the freedom to see myself or others from new vantage points. While the plot points may be planets or periods away from my day-to-day existence, novels allow me to question aspects of myself and others in a way that even my journal never fully captures.
They allow space for my imagination to posit questions about revenge, love, identity, deceit, decadence, and desire. They act as a frame for my own answers to emerge alongside the characters’ actions, opening an internal dialogue that rarely runs free when I stop to assess my responses in real-time. They permit me to try on personalities that, while seemingly opposing from my lived experience, somehow fit in my subconscious. They illicit emotional resonance, allowing the feelings to blossom even if I’ve never encountered a dragon, a witch, or a spy.
This can be extrapolated further to my understanding of those in my life and those around the world. Through the characters in a novel, I can identify with and recognize the lived experiences of my partner, my colleagues, the rider across from me on public transit, and the person whose image shows up across my phone screen while scrolling on social media. We often hear real-world retellings of those navigating strife, those engulfed in violence, those subjected to mistreatment.
Yet, so often when this is but a flash across our screens, we sit for a moment in rage and move forward, or feel utterly helpless yet continue to scroll to the next image, the next video. There is something about literature—maybe it’s the world building and imprinting that happens when something is on the page, maybe it’s the emotional investment that comes from our storybook days, curled up in our pjs at 8 p.m. on a school night, maybe it’s simple that these characters and stories are both not at all and yet fully real to us somewhere in our mind.
Translating that experience—those deep reflective moments stepping mentally into the shoes of another—can activate us, alongside the same sensibility in the way we look around us. The stories and settings we choose can help to contribute not only to our understanding of the broader world but to our capacity for compassion. As we dive into the inner worlds captured in a novel set across the globe, in real-world and fictional settings, we can begin to expand our hearts for those living those moments each and every day.
Empathy takes many forms within the world of a book: Pain for the protagonist’s agonizing decision, fear for the unknown as they travel off on an adventure, elation as they find themselves with their soulmate as the final chapter closes.
We can see ourselves in them and yet see them in us. Different from a film or a show, the act of absorbing a story from the crisp paper sheets of a book on your bedside table allows for greater insertion and participation; the chance to fully immerse yourself without the added layer of visual representation. The settings become an illustration of your own design, the language a tool for curating the tone and flow of conversations that move the plot forward.
It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.
How many times have I dug into a first paragraph knowing that the journey will be grueling and yet I read on? How often have I wept as a character faces hardship only to lie in bed pondering the hurts I have faced myself? How enthusiastically I’ve cheered when the person I’ve followed from moment one finally sees their dream come to fruition or their plan transform into reality? In those instances, have I not stopped to assess where I am on my own road to happiness, freedom, or fulfillment?
Have I not nostalgically galivanted through childhood memories, scattered vividly, to explain the backstory? Or found myself cycling through the losses, regrets, or missed opportunities that have passed me by as those on the page make the wrong choice, let go of the wrong person, shut the wrong door?
On my literary expedition, I can place myself in many lives, yet it’s in the sentences and plot twists that shine a light on my own humanity—and that of those around me—that I find myself most transfixed; transformed.
When the lessons show themselves, the morals crafted by our architects of the human experience, I find myself enveloped in questions about what it means to be human, to be a woman, to be alive, and to be alone. The author empowers me to step into curiosity through the safety of others, like a blanket over my own shame, survival, and sensitivity. They gift me space for an internal conversation that otherwise would require a whole lot of personal commitment to self-awareness and introspection.
What if we approached every book we opened as a window into our innermost secrets—if we saw them as a chance to discover what doesn’t easily float to the forefront of our consciousness, a sort of cover that makes the digging a little easier?
What if we allowed ourselves to dream about our motivations and misgivings through the eyes of that misunderstood mermaid, the cast-aside medieval servant, that mischievous villain or that heartbroken heroine? Would we give ourselves more grace? Would we dole out forgiveness to those around us, recognizing that perhaps, as our beloved characters etched on pages, they, too, have stories hidden that take a plot reveal to understand, complete with motivations and backgrounds that have not yet been revealed?
What if we thoughtfully approach each life interaction, each new acquaintance, each uncertain scenario with the openness with which we approach a novel? Not assuming that we know the ending—that we have all the answers from the start—but instead sitting tight, navigating each oncoming segment with an understanding that with each new point and page we will gain greater insight.
We may see that some moments in life will be novellas. Others will be series. Our neighbourhoods close and far may be mysteries first unsolved, yet with time invested, patience, and the one-page-at-a-time approach, we can learn to uncover the pieces that are not just sitting on the surface. That even our own thoughts—the ones that gnaw at us as anxiety or flutter with anticipation—may not always be what they seem.
They may be the sign of a new chapter emerging, or be the clarifying instance that allows us to move on to the next book in the saga.
How can we take life a little more like a book to be read, and in turn, use each new book as a chance to better understand life? What a novel idea.
