Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement 
7B
Wednesday, April 10, 2019 // The Statement 
 
7B

Fictional characters, real life lessons

T

hroughout my life, I have been 
called many different things — a 
loud and little extrovert as a child 
to a loud and liberal feminist throughout 
my teenage years. With my high-volumed 
voice, which I can thank my dad’s side of 
the family for — I’m mute compared to 
them — I never stopped talking. 
Teenage angst may be a cliché, but it’s 
one that I embraced to the fullest — I was 
the middle-schooler who was infuriated 
by everything around her. Cliques were 
forming, girls were turning on each other, 
boys channeled their immaturity into mis-
treatment. I was making my way through 
the awkward stage with a tunnel-sized gap 
between my teeth, glasses that didn’t quite 
fit my face and extremely sensitive levels of 
confidence. My friends were ever-chang-
ing, with useless drama constantly pitting 
people against one another. With this con-
stant lack of stability, I struggled to find 
my identity. Every emotion was confused 
with endless anxiety, a feeling so great that 
it often trumped my ability to adequately 
express myself. Words failed me — noth-
ing I said had the power strong enough to 
convey what I meant and what I felt. It was 
all too overbearing. I needed to find a way 
around it.
I had one guaranteed spot of refuge from 
the war zone of adolescence: books.
The advice of fictional characters is 
often overlooked. As people grow up, they 

gravitate toward the idea that made-up 
stories and characters are childish, and 
instead of reaching for a fantasy novel 
about a dystopian society, adults are 
expected to read works like eloquent dis-
sertations of the history of yarn. I’m not 
saying non-fiction books aren’t important 
— because of course they are — however, 
it’s essential that people do not dismiss the 
power of fiction.
Fictitious characters living in fictitious 
towns going to fictitious schools expe-
riencing fictitious problems that to me, 
somehow felt real. Problems that weren’t 
my own, being solved by people who I 
aspired to be. Made-up scenarios con-
structed by an author to emanate univer-
sal truths. 
I needed these fake realities.
I read books like “Looking for Alaska,” 
a John Green mystery novel with an enig-
matic female character, or “Nineteen 
Minutes,” a multi-perspective account of 
a school shooting by Jodi Picoult. Novels 
that had characters with traits that went 
below surface level, offering complex, lay-
ered personalities that I thought I couldn’t 
find in the people around me. Novels with 
female protagonists who weren’t afraid to 
unapologetically be themselves and male 
protagonists who not only respected this 
factor, but admired it as well. Novels that 
broke the boundaries of the toxic mascu-
linity that most middle school boys were 

victims of. Novels that praised the bold 
and the different. And with these novels, I 
found a way to both quiet myself down, yet 
finally open myself up.
In these imaginary worlds, I was no lon-
ger the girl who couldn’t stop talking — the 
content of the novels spoke to me. Instead 
of accidentally interrupting the authors 
mid-sentence, I listened to each tale as if 
they were commandments sent from God. 
I dog-eared pages I thought were insight-
ful and highlighted lines I thought were 
important. Each memorable quote became 
personal advice I could always come back 
to when I needed it. Because my teen angst 
pushed me to neglect the middle school 
guidance counselor I actually had, books 
took over the role.
One of the first books I found myself 
devoted to was centered on a girl who was 
dying. Despite its inherently morbid con-
tent, the story spoke to me. “The Fault in 
Our Stars,” another John Green novel, 
which, at the time, was not yet an inter-
national teen favorite, summoned my 
complete attention. Though it may sound 
hyperbolic, the infatuation I had with 
Augustus, Hazel and Isaac was unpar-
alleled to anything I’d read before. My 
emotional investment was so pow-
erful that my everyday routine took a 
backseat to the book. On a specific week-
day, with just 150 pages left of the novel, I 
decided I couldn’t read in school anymore. 

I went to the nurse, pretended to have a 
migraine and cried my eyes out because “I 
needed to go home.” An hour later, I was in 
my bed, worshipping the plot page by page.
Until the end.
My world came crashing down at the 
conclusion of this “heartwarming” story 
of teenage romance. I apologize for any 
spoilers, but Augustus’ death felt like a 
crime against humanity to me — an end-
ing created just to cause me pain. I cried 
to the point where I actually got sick — my 
sensitivity levels permanently affected, 
my feelings no longer held within. The 
novel gave me a sense of validation regard-
ing my whirlwind of emotions in the life 
events that surrounded me. In my world 
of teenage angst, any sign of sensitivity in 
response to catty drama was deemed and 
exposed as a weakness. A lack of confi-
dence was noticed and taken advantage 
of. On the contrary, empathy and under-
standing was discouraged. “The Fault in 
Our Stars” sparked a level of emotional 
depth that allowed me to see that these 
norms were not only immature but toxic. I 
was shown that feeling deeply for yourself 
and others is not a weakness, but instead 
a beautiful part of the human experience. 
This takeaway carries a legacy that I still 
find important today,
This particular story further supported 
my view of reading as a cheaper form of 
therapy, and encouraged me to seek out 
books as a way to find peace. I catch myself 
inserting my personality into the plots 
of books, most recently by becoming an 
onlooker in the Mitch Albom novel “The 
Magic Strings of Frankie Presto.” Read 
in a span of two days while on vacation, I 
alienated myself from the rest of the world 
in the process. Despite it being afamily 
vacation to Mexico, I certainly wasn’t in 
Mexico, but instead comfortably trapped 
inside Albom’s creation. Whatever prob-
lems plagued me at the time were irrel-
evant when I was reading.
The countless escapes provided by the 
books of my past have shaped me into the 
person I am today. Some of the adjectives 
people attribute to me may be accurate — I 
may be loud, and yes, I may be liberal, and, 
of course, I’m a feminist — but because of 
books, I’m so much more than that.
I’m 
strong-willed 
like 
Hermione 
(“Harry Potter”), brave like Tris (“Diver-
gent”) witty like Hazel (“The Fault in Our 
Stars”). Just like Alaska (“Looking for 
Alaska”), I act as if I am a hurricane, as 
impactful and bold as I feel I could be. I am 
a combination of each significant literary 
character that has deeply changed my life.
I am the books I love.

BY ANDIE HOROWITZ, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL

