The World Of Words

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Taken directly from my diary. A confessional, raw piece describing my deep love for literature, and why I find the world of words and books so much more appealing than the real one.

It WAS a diary entry, but I read it and found it would be a great short story/essay. I hope you will comment and be able to relate.

Submitted: August 21, 2007

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Submitted: August 21, 2007



I’ve always enjoyed books far more than real life. It is so enchanting, so much better than reality. Stories will always be there, the pages will always hold them in place. I was never quite sure why I clung to literature and fiction, but now I think I have it figured out.


Because the truth is that inside I am lushly romantic. I love all those classic romances, the sweet gestures set into play by decent men. Then why must I be so tough and unyielding in actual life? Why do I love such things in books but snort at them in real life? I suppose I will tell you.


I love it because I would disapprove in real life. I love it because I don’t think it will actually happen. Especially not to me. So why not enjoy the imaginings? There are no restraints in book pages, no unknown reason for protesting. It’s all so definite, there in ink.


No one could be that flawless, that genuine. Yet I want them to be, I want to find someone who’s as perfectly imperfect as characters and their plot and their metaphors and their themes. And no one could be so sure to stay that way; frozen happy and joyous and kind and chivalrous.


It is so much easier to be in love with characters. A little of my heart belongs to Mr. Darcy, Mr. Lefroy, Edward Cullen and Landon Carter.


The sad truth is that people are not characters. There are not any tangible pages to look back on; there is only what they tell you. People change, but not as constantly, as perfectly as in the novels I so love.


I am drawn to the perfection of words, to the dreamy view of reality. It could all be real, it’s clever, people always say the exact right thing at the right time. I would not long to create it if it were too realistic. For it could be real, and I want it to be real, yet it isn’t. And so I dream of such things happening, of the words coming to life and engulfing my world in perfection, even in unhappiness.


To me, that is what literature is: It’s life, with twists and predictably unpredictable characters, but there is certainty in words. They can only go back on themselves so far. There is happiness and joy and depression, all at the right moments, never confused, always describes exactly right. Words never fail in stories. It’s life the way we wish we could describe it. It can take you to another world of crisp pages, and you can come back if you choose. It is creativity controlled, unlike the life and world I live in.


The truth that I must accept is that people are not cleverly thought up. I cannot stand with ink between us. There isn’t any foreshadowing or words that describe just right. They’re people, they weren’t imagined, and some aren’t supposed to be in my story where they don’t belong.


That’s what I’m afraid of, and that is my biggest fault. I’d rather live in a world of beautiful words. I crave plot and metaphors; I could sit in a library all day and not care. It is at the point of ignoring reality and living in pages. I long to be a book; and it is sadly pathetic. I need culture, I need control. I love words. I cannot accept that I can’t pick up a pen and write my life and everyone else’s faults. Words are my tool to achieve the closest thing to perfection possible. But what happens when I step outside the boundaries of words and enter a life where there is no clear beginning, middle, or end? When I can’t count out the number of pages left?

I am naturally an introvert, a thinker, a cautious romantic. I don’t always like what I can’t explain. So I write.

© Copyright 2018 Stephanie Noel. All rights reserved.

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