Novel Idea: How Fiction Helps Us See Ourselves & Others

By Hailey Hechtman for The 44 North

Contributing Writer

The words of a Spanish novel spilling onto a desk

“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.

Why Libraries Are Vital Third Spaces, Featuring Dear TPL: The Passport Project

by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North

Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project

A black-and-white sketch of a public library

"The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged."

On a beautiful summer day in July of 2024, I signed into our regular all-hands work meeting. Thirty minutes later, I signed off having learned that the full operations of the nonprofit we worked for would be closing its doors. We were all unemployed.

There was no dramatic buildup or warning, and it was strange how ordinary the information felt in the moment, even though everything was about to change. That kind of ordinariness sticks with you—it's a reminder that instability can creep up on you, even on beautiful summer days. 

It’s now 2026, and I still haven’t found long-term, permanent employment. Instead, I’ve juggled a long string of contracts. If I'm lucky, I have short roles and project-based work, meaning temporary positions with deliverable dates taking priority over purpose. This lifestyle has become familiar to zillennials in the questionable battlefield we call the workforce. With unpredictable employment crammed into long days and even longer nights, stability is an abstract concept; planning more than a few months ahead feels optimistic at best and foolhardy at worst.

It didn’t take long for me to realize how familiar my story is. Friends, colleagues, youth across the GTA, and hundreds of online strangers are all navigating similar realities. People are constantly moving between contracts, applications, side projects, and long stretches of waiting just to start. We’re all figuring out how to live without guarantees. Stability becomes less about things staying the same and more about knowing some places will still let you in. Life under capitalism means that we longingly emphasize our ability to own, control, and gain access. We yearn to have access—the type of access that means you don’t need to earn your right to exist in a space. You don’t have to be productive, successful, or certain. You can show up as you are, even when everything else feels in flux. 

This is the access we all dream about, which becomes grounding when nothing else feels secure or safe.

A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book

During this very unplanned and unwanted gap period, I found myself spending a lot of time on the internet. I consume endless information that rarely makes me feel better. Feelings of comparison and competition close in even though I’m spending less time with real human beings. I needed a place to break out of these four walls and constant reminders of not having a place to actually be. I needed somewhere that did not expect productivity or optimism; somewhere that would let me exist without pressure. A place that doesn't cost anything. I’m one of the lucky ones because a place like that does exist. For me, one of those places is the TPL or its government name: The Toronto Public Library.

Some days, I went to the TPL to locate Knitting for Dummies. Other days, I went when I needed quiet space with outlets and backsupport. Most days, I just need to leave the house. The library has always given me somewhere to land. 

The library has always been important to me. Even as a kid, it felt special. It’s a place where you can wander without a goal and still feel like you’re going on an adventure. Walking through the aisles feels a bit like walking through a candy store. Every shelf offers a new possibility. You stumble into topics you never planned to learn about. If you speak more than one language, the world inside the library feels even bigger.

A library card unlocks more than books. It gives you access to museums, art galleries, and city attractions. It lets you learn how to sew or borrow equipment you might not be able to afford on your own. It makes curiosity feel affordable and within reach. It invites and welcomes you back into community. 

Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage

Libraries are often described as quiet spaces, and they are. But they’re also places where people figure things out. For many, the library is one of the first public spaces they navigate independently. It’s where they print their first resume. It’s where they wait for friends after school. It’s where they sit without being told to buy something or move along. These moments are small, but they matter.

In my work with youth, I have seen how rare that kind of space is and how it’s continuing to dwindle. Many environments expect performance, progress, and answers. Libraries don’t. They allow people to exist while they are still becoming.

I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about libraries. So when my neighbour, Marisa, came to me with an idea, it immediately felt like something worth paying attention to.

Marisa told me about the unofficial Toronto Public Library passport—a passion project that encouraged people to collect stamps from each library branch they visited. As someone who moved to Toronto from the United States, Marisa discovered the library system as an adult. In many ways, she had explored more branches than people who grew up here. Her love for public access and community spaces made her wonder what the passport could become if it felt more intentional and reflective.

She asked if I wanted to help reimagine it, and of course, I said yes.

Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter

My background in nonprofit and social impact work meant I knew how to support a project like this. I knew how to coordinate people and move ideas forward. But it was my flexibility that made it possible. Contract work teaches you how to build things without waiting for perfect conditions. You learn how to make something real with what you have.

From the beginning, we were clear about one thing: This could not be a project about youth without youth being deeply involved. Too often, young people are asked to engage in ways that feel shallow. They are consulted after decisions are already made. They are invited to participate without being trusted to shape the work itself.

We wanted something different.

Youth volunteers were invited to visit their favourite branches not as researchers with scripts, but as community members. They talked to staff. They observed how people used the space. They noticed small details that are easy to overlook. They asked questions because they were curious, not because they were told to collect specific information.

What emerged were stories that felt real. They were not polished or uniform; they reflected how people actually experience the library.

One of the most meaningful parts of the project was the creation of branch-specific stamps. Designing a stamp sounds simple, but it requires people to think deeply about the place. What makes this branch feel like itself? What does it offer its neighbourhood? What stands out when you spend time there?

Turning those reflections into visual designs became a way of saying and emphasizing that their perspective mattered—not as a symbolic gesture, but in a real and tangible way.

This is what youth engagement can look like when it’s rooted in trust. Youth were not asked to represent an entire generation. They were not expected to perform expertise. They were invited to contribute as themselves.

Dear TPL: The Passport Project became our love letter to the Toronto Public Library. At a time when so much feels uncertain, it felt important to pay attention to the spaces that quietly support us. We wanted to capture what the library means to people and create room for reflection and memory.

Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag

Through Dear TPL, you’ll find a growing collection of stories, photos, and lived experiences from branches across the city. Youth and community volunteers documented moments that do not always appear in official histories. They focused on how spaces feel and why that feeling matters.

Creating something during a period of uncertainty can feel grounding. When the future feels distant or unclear, working on a project offers a way to stay present. Dear TPL was never meant to solve systemic problems. It was an act of care. A way of saying that these spaces mattered enough to be noticed.

The project is still growing, new stories are still being added, and youth are still encountering their local branches in meaningful ways. That ongoing nature feels right as libraries change alongside the communities they serve.

The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged.

If Dear TPL does anything, I hope it encourages people to notice the spaces that support them and to share their own stories. For young people, especially, being trusted to help shape public memory is not just engagement; it is belonging. And sometimes, belonging is what keeps us going.

If you’d like to learn more or get involved—in Toronto or through the libraries in your city!—reach out to Stephanie here.

Writers Room | What Happens When You Call 211: Re-braiding Trust in Community Care

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor

A dark forest at dusk

As the holidays approach, bringing with them colder weather, loneliness, and isolation for everyone—especially folks in need of mental health support or experiencing homelessness—the Toronto Community Crisis Service (TCCS) “provides free, confidential, in-person mental health supports city-wide from mobile crisis worker teams. TCCS supports Toronto residents 16 years of age or older and is available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.” All you need to do is dial 211. “The service provides a non-police-led, community-based, client-focused, and trauma-informed response to mental health crisis calls and wellness checks.”

Please engage with the TCCS website for further resources. Please also view this illustration for examples of support offered by TCSS. This story was inspired by the profound impact TCSS has on the Toronto Community, with the hope that services like this will continue to expand across Canada. Across Ontario, please see these resources if you need non-police-led mental health & social services.

Please note: this short story discusses suicide attempts, ideation, loss, and grief. It may activate folks with similar lived experiences, beyond what feels safe to spend time with. Please engage with this story how/whenever it feels safe for you.

***

I turned eighteen last December 23rd, the same day Oscar Peterson died in 2007 and a week before my parents died in a house fire. It’s almost cruel that it wasn’t our house, mostly because I might have been home. Or maybe it feels premeditated that our home was still there for me to face.

My parents took the bus a few blocks over to feed a coworker’s cat, near where I was attending veterinary school classes that evening. They were going to meet me afterwards.

My parents were firefighters.

***

I’m sorry this is written between the lines of old sheet music. Jona gave it to me. I know it’s jazz music, but I’m not sure what song it is. It belonged to her partner. 

I heard Jona in the back office of the laundromat—where I live and work now—over the rhythmic thumping of the machines. Jona’s red nails clicked the keys of her archaic typewriter with the fierceness of a novel’s climax, so she tells me. Jona immigrated from Jamaica decades ago and owns this vintage laundromat. She hasn’t changed it at all—the walls are still half wood panelled and half mint blue wallpaper; the machines are still orange; and the tile still looks like a cracked checkerboard. The washers and dryers stare each other down with their frontload-door-eyes, forever at the beginning or ending of a game.

Jona’s old, warm, and not always friendly, but unfailingly kind. And a bit too impatient. The place has been wreathed in cedar boughs and frankincense taper candles since early November.  

“O’scary McCloud!” 

If you’re wondering, yes, that is in fact my name. I’ve grown to appreciate it. My parents loved Oscar Peterson, and I love him because they did. When I was born, and the nurse asked about my name, my mom said, “Oh, scary!” It just stuck—a fun take on Oscar and the best example of what my parents were like. Later, when I was a toddler, and my mom was braiding my hair, she always said she was braiding pathways for sadness to leave my brain—like special scars for my fear to escape. 

“How does your sadness escape, Mommy?”

“When Daddy and I put out fires, sweetheart. We help the hose with our tears.”

I’ve gone by Scar since. Jona’s just sort of formal, if you feel me? In the best way.

“Yes, Jona?” My voice rattled a bit—I was perched cross-legged on my favourite dryer in the back corner of the laundromat. 

“Did you check again?”

I smiled involuntarily. “Yes, Jona, it’s still coming. Supposed to start at 4:06 p.m.”

“It’s about damn time. I’ve been waiting for snow for a month!”

I laughed so she could hear it as a response, but it was hollow. I ran my thumbs over the harmonica in my lap, and watched the clothes and bedding spin in the washers and dryers. I’d stopped feeling the waves of sadness coming. Now, it just leaked. Unlike my parents, I didn’t have a hose to channel it with. Had they been keeping this fire of pain at bay my whole life? What about their own? My nose started to run, but I didn’t snuff it back up; the air was thick with cotton and dryer sheet fibres. And I hoped, maybe, like blood from a shocked wound, it wouldn’t stop. 

The laundromat was one of the few places that still took change without it being weird. I know that’s when I first fell in love with music—hearing the change jingle in my parents’ pockets when they tossed my small body in the air. I’ve felt small again since they died, like I could fit into those machines, barely, tumbling over on myself with nowhere to go, stuck behind a locked door I always have to pay to open, waiting for someone else’s cycle to finish. 

***

They say you need a lot of water to put out a fire. So I jumped. 

But last February’s water wasn’t cold enough, and the Humber bridge wasn’t high enough. The burn just seared, bone cold as I lay on the raw rocks, hoping my blood, too, would dry out. 

But the cops found me partially conscious. Cuffed me. Asked invasive questions. Someone had called, saying I looked suspicious. They locked me in a burning yellow room in the hospital, so bright with artificial light I felt like I was looking directly into the sun. Or another irreversible fire. The cops hovered outside the door, pacing to some militant beat. 

I’m not sure I consented to anything, if I’m honest. As a young Black man, I never would’ve called 911.    

And I won’t now. I won’t call anyone. 

There are 547 unread texts on my phone. All from my freshman year friends at veterinary school. I stopped opening them the day I left the program. I’m afraid even knowing what they’ve said is a burden for someone else to carry. 

I let my head fall back against the corner, crashing into this dead White guy Jona likes. I think she likes him because his last name is Frost and he wrote about snow a few times. I’m positive she’s the only Canadian immigrant who worships winter. But there’s this poem she has framed, behind my head right now. It’s beautiful, stamped into my brain, and I can’t bear to look at it.  

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

I do have a few miles to go, but I’ve decided only as far as Biidaasige Park, where I could be both inside and outside the city at once without being found.

***

The temperature drops fast this time of year. I wait for the blizzard to build my disguise before I slip into it.

At 4:10 p.m., I yell, “Jona! I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be back—”

“Don’t be too long, I need you to empty the coins from the machines tonight! We’re closed tomorrow!” 

I didn’t answer, but I know she heard the front door chime like a bell tower as I left, ringing in the dark.

***

The park was desperately quiet—stopped. When I was a kid, any prolonged or encompassing quiet felt like noise. It felt misplaced. But now, I wanted it to absorb me. The snow kept falling as if God were pouring it. Wires, cables, and branches slumped under the weight. I lost the internet as I wound deeper into the woods, past picnic tables, ziplines, and buried plant spines. The snow hid whether I was on a trail or not, but I couldn’t see street lights anymore. I stopped when all I could smell was animal bodies and pine, and all I could taste was the metallic cold.

Jona had stitched an extra layer into my dad’s bunker jacket so I could wear it as a winter coat. I peeled it off and dropped it. In my t-shirt, I dropped my body beside it. 

My parents had taught me how to cry, but I’d forgotten. Now, I wondered if sitting under a tree in a blizzard was another way to put out a fire. 

At least it might be another way to drown. 

I fell asleep. 

***

My phone rang too soon and woke me. I couldn’t feel my fingers, and I don’t know how or why I answered. I was so cold. 

“Scar? Where are you?”

“Jona?” My voice crumpled like tissue paper. 

“Where are you?”

I was delirious, my brain churning the last thing I’d thought of—the poem. “It’s filling up fast. So lovely and dark and deep, Jona.”

“Scar, my dear, where are you? Can you get to my house?”

“There’s no house. I’m far from the village.” 

“Not that far. Hold on to that harmonica.”

“But I can’t keep my promise.” 

***

I wasn’t surprised that she hung up. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think at all. I was so sleepy and somehow warm, my muscles fizzing. Honey light spilled across the woods. It hadn’t soaked through to me yet, but I could see it dripping in the air, dancing with the snow like golden ghosts. I was afraid of getting stuck to its strings—of getting pulled like a lasso, plucked like a guitar. My parents’ blonde wood guitar. 

Somewhere at the edge of the park, the Toronto Community Crisis Service (TCCS) dispatch team was afraid they wouldn’t find me in time. Jona had called 211. No police. 

“On the Trail” by Oscar Peterson trickled weakly from my harmonica. I couldn’t feel my mouth or my fingers. I closed my eyes. Let me be music. The last sense I was conscious of was my hearing. And my ear training—my judge of trust—was tuned. 

The last thing I heard was a disembodied voice, “Keep playing, honey! We hear you! We’re coming!” 

***

As I started to warm up, I felt two bodies sitting on either side of me in the back of a truck, ready with hot water and food. Warm clothes and blankets were layered across my shoulders, and a sleeping bag was pulled up to my torso. The two bodies came into view—two Black women with kind eyes. They asked, tenderly, if I’d like to be connected with Afrocentric support, a shelter bed, or crisis services. They outlined every available option for me. In this little cut out of warmth, amid one of the darkest nights of the year, I felt safe enough to tell them where I needed to be. 

The TCCS team drove me back to the laundromat, listening intently the whole way as I told them what had happened. They helped me climb the fire escape to my rented room, and told me they’d wait if I felt I still needed them. I thanked them and said I’d love a ride somewhere to be with a friend so I wouldn’t be alone. They smiled and waited for me to grab something I needed to bring with me. 

***

A few minutes later, I knocked on Jona’s front door. It was bedazzled in dollar-store lights and decorations that illuminated the front stoop in pools of colour, as if the night had broken apart into the rainbow it’s made of. I turned and waved to the TCCS team, who waved back as they drove away.

I’ll never forget the look of relief on Jona’s face when she opened the door. Cooking, cigarette, and fire smoke spilled out with her, filling the space between us like suspended snow, melted into steam. 

She grinned and said, shakily, “Well, thank you for stopping by my house, this snowy evening.”

I held out a cardboard storage box, filled with coins from the machines, and smiled. Surrounded by heat, I didn’t feel afraid—I didn’t feel the urge to put anything out. 

Jona hugged me and kissed my cheeks now stained with tears.

“Oh, my dear.” Jona’s eyes scanned me before she added, “Your hair. No sir. Not in such beautiful frost and snow.” 

I’d tied my hair into a large bun, now soaked and astray. 

“Would you let me do your braids?” 

I paused for a moment, but nodded. My heart remembered how to fight fires, and it had been a long time since I’d let my fear escape.