“Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

They say you always come out of the woods better than you went in. Could this be true for novels too? When I close the cover, am I a better human?

While working on my current writing project, I came to a stuck place. So I texted a dear and wise writer friend. “Mind helping me work through some plotting?”

She responded within minutes. “Sure!”

“Sweet. What kind of tea can I bring you?”

“Surprise me.”

You know you’re in capable hands with a mentor who says, “Surprise me.” Fearlessness is foundational to creativity. And isn’t the reverse true as well? Creativity feeds fearlessness. But I digress—or do I?

Anyway, I nestled into her sofa with my ginger-and-lemongrass tea and explained what makes my main character tick. I asked, Is her backstory too heavy, too real? Will readers believe it?

“I know this scenario can happen,” I said, “because it happened to me.” And I went on to confide details I rarely share about a traumatic chapter from my young adulthood—because the power of the story I’m working on depends on my willingness to take my characters to places I’d rather not revisit myself. Even if that drama happens to them off the page, before the novel begins, knowing their pain points helps me sketch them in a real light.

During our plotting session, my friend updated me about a painful personal situation she’s navigating. “Some day I’ll write about it,” she said, with a wry laugh. “But not now.”

“No. Not now,” I echoed.

Later, possibly much later, my friend will see beyond the great, ominous trees currently blocking her sunlight. She’ll have gained a 10,000-foot view of the whole forest and the winding path where God led her through. On that distant day, she might decide to grab the hand of a freshly imagined character, walk them back into those deep shadows, and write their story true. When she does, she’ll offer readers a candle to carry through their own shadowy seasons. Because pain and conflict come into all our lives.

“In this world you will have trouble,” Jesus said. And ding-dang-it, troubles tend to be what transform us.

Here’s where story comes in.

You and I are hardwired to relate to story. When Jesus wanted to communicate a truth in a way his disciples could internalize, and carry with them, and pass along, he told a story.

So as we read a book, we wonder, Will the protagonist rise above? Before we know it, we’ve become emotionally embedded in the character’s skin, turning the page because we must know: Can anything good come of this? And all the while, the story’s gently nudging us through sun-dappled woods toward a reflective pond into which we might otherwise never look. Lessons we would naturally shy away from become winsome and accessible.

And we thought we were just reading a book!

Sue Monk Kidd writes,

“Sometimes another woman’s story becomes a mirror that shows me a self I haven’t seen before. When I listen to her tell it, her experience quickens and clarifies my own. Her questions rouse mine. Her conflicts illumine my conflicts. Her resolutions call forth my hope. Her strengths summon my strengths. All of this can happen even when our stories and our lives are very different.”

The novelists I’ve gotten to know all desire to write creatively, but also from a place of vulnerability and truth. In other words, fearlessly. Maybe this is why, even though it may appear to be nothing more than a lovely, made-up pack of lies, a fictional story holds life-changing power like few things do. So yeah, when it comes time to put the book down, we can indeed hope to be better, more compassionate human beings!

Good fiction is a joy, a journey tucked between two covers. But it isn’t all escapism. At its heart, fiction is a portal into a wide and wondrous world of understanding.

Can you think of a novel that grew your compassion?

What about a story that made you brave?

Which one helped you process emotions (feelings you may not have even been aware needed processing)?

Has a novel every helped you arrive at a spiritual discovery?