General Fiction vs Fantasy: What's More Comforting?

The evolution of my book taste.

I grew up on fantasy books, so it doesn't surprise me that I was drawn to the genre when I got back into reading. I instantly fell in love—it was like rekindling a childhood friendship. The memories just came flooding back.

I was infatuated, immediately. Frightened to even try other genres. I was addicted to the escape that magical worlds offered, and barely looked in the direction of anything else.

You see, my mind has always been a fragile thing. I resonate most with the term nervous illness, because anxiety just doesn’t seem to cut it. I often find myself scrolling past things that might bring up bad memories, and do what I can to avoid thinking too deeply.

So back then, when it came to books, I built up a cage. I latched onto the idea that a depressing story might make me spiral. If I chose the wrong one— game over. If it felt too real, things might get bad again.

For genres like Self-help and Literary Fiction, I said forget it. Fantasy reignited my sense of wonder, and I felt safe in new worlds. The books often had satisfying endings that made me feel hopeful, so why venture beyond that comfort zone?

I’ll admit that it stayed like that for a while, but as of recent times, I’ve seen an unexpected shift. Fairytales don’t seem to soothe me quite like they used to, and I’ve been attempting to analyse why.

How did we get here?

Some of my fondest memories are snuggled in bed as a child, listening to my Nan narrate a story as she sent me into my dreams. Back then, I cherished books heavily steeped in magic and wonder, like The Enchanted Wood and The Chronicles of Narnia.

The all time favourite was Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and I vividly remember her reading it to me one evening when I was about five. It was the scene where Ron picks up Harry in the blue flying car that had me jumping up and squealing; “A flying car! Is that even possible, Nan?” My jaw officially hit the floor when she told me there was a film.

But it wasn’t just the concept of potential wizards hiding in the streets that blew my little mind. Reading about a child who also didn’t have parents was comforting, even if I didn’t realise it at the time. In this book series, the boy lives despite all odds. The power of love is enough to defeat the darkest wizard of all time, and that was exactly the kind of wondrous world that I needed to be exposed to.

That memory stands out not only as one of my favourite reading experiences, but as a defining moment of my childhood.

“It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream.
This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment...”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Unfortunately, however, I lost interest in reading as a teen and only rediscovered the art during University. Whilst taking a Philosophy and Literature module, I was tasked to read one novel per week, and was surprised to find myself flying through the set list. If you’re interested, the choices included texts like Bluets, The Plague, Nausea, The Second Sex, and Othello.

I truly enjoyed the variation of feminist literature, dizzying existentialist tales, and classics. I found myself buzzing in anticipation before each seminar- so beyond excited to hear everyone’s thoughts on the reads. But the problem at Uni was just that. The syllabus was strict and we had to form nuanced opinions on each book, then write essays about them. Some were fantastic, but others were dreary and bleak. It was draining sometimes. Most of the books followed, “characters plagued by once-familiar problems and just living their lives as best they can.” They were too stark. Too relatable.

Then things changed.

On top of my other University work, reading for personal pleasure wasn’t in the realm of possibility. I kept thinking to myself, I can’t wait to pick whichever book I want. But if I’m being honest, that didn’t happen for a while after graduating. Let’s just say that finding BookTube was a humble new beginning.

You won’t be surprised to hear that I started with the ‘basics’ like Call Me By Your Name and The Song of Achilles. I also became obsessed with popular author, Haruki Murakami, and consecutively made my way through a number of his novels.

I always find myself thinking back fondly to reading Murakami’s Norwegian Wood on my old commute to work. At that time, London Waterloo rush hour was mentally a no-go. Instead, I opted to take a much earlier, longer train route that meant less changeovers. Every single morning during that summer, I would read for forty minutes straight. I tell this story because there was this girl I would see every morning, who would also always have a book in hand. We would notice each other and it felt like there was an unwritten connection between us. I’ll never forget the day she boarded the carriage, holding the same red book as I - Norwegian Wood.

I wonder where she is now.

Then came Winter.

My sweet nan still insists on making a stocking for me every year, so I decided to scour the internet to find books to put on my Christmas list. I randomly added Dance of Thieves because I liked the cover. It was chosen without much thought, and little did I know the greater effect it would have on my life.

Dance of Thieves is about a pickpocket and a Prince who are kidnapped by bandits. They eventually manage to escape, but there’s one problem- they hate each other’s guts, and are still chained together! The genre is romantic fantasy, and needless to say, I fell in love with the enemies to lovers trope. I instantly felt a sense of home— desperate to read more like it.

But really, it was so much more than that.

I cherished the sense of escape that fantasy offered. Death by sword was much more manageable for me than the downbeat ‘scholarly’ texts I had been reading at Uni. There was something comforting in the way the characters faced the same things as us, despite being in far away worlds. That there was comparable politics. That the characters fall in love, fight and debate ethics, too. It was a portal to becoming someone electric. Rather than reflecting on the complex ills of our past and present, I was able to become a badass heroine, dealing with similar issues but in a metaphorical way. And, with magic!

The child inside of me bubbled to the surface, and I was thrilled to find stories entirely pleasurable again.

So, for the past few years, if you'd asked me what my favourite genre was, I would’ve said fantasy before you’d even finished the sentence.

I hardly deviated from the genre.

Picking books used to feel easy. I would ask myself if I wanted dragons, fairies, vampires or witches, then something would fall into my lap.

But for the later part of this year, that hasn't quite been the case.

I think the great change started when I fell in love with a new author, Fredrik Backman- bestseller of Beartown, Anxious People, and A Man Called Ove. Such books itched my brain in a different kind of way.

Backman’s writing revolves around people that behave idiotically. Towns full of the ‘every-day’ person and ordinary mundane life. He exposes raw truths about the human experience in unsettling ways, and nothing quite goes to plan because people aren’t destined to be anything special. He portrays real life issues, like the effects of alcoholism on children, and the class divide. Some of his characters are abused. Some turn a blind eye to injustice, to remain comfortable.

It felt invigorating to read something more reminiscent of reality again. Where I could find comfort in the common human, not the epic warrior.

I found myself thinking about Boys Don’t Cry by Fíona Scarlett, and remembering how moving the story was. It’s about two brothers who live in Ireland, one of which is terminally ill. It touches on pressing issues that persist in Dublin today, and is consequently a devastating read. It was hard to get through, but in reality, the experience was more comforting in the long run than some fantasy books that I have enjoyed more. I appreciated the pain because it was grounded in so much reality.

So, I haven’t felt like picking up a fantasy book much lately, and notice a profound change happening in my book-taste. Now, when I’m sad, I crave slow, sombre, and hauntingly relatable writing, as opposed to something exciting and fast paced.

This led to the question, if in need of comfort in future, which genre will I turn to?

I guess it’s a silly question because I can pick either—whichever suits me best in the moment. There are so many sub-genres within each, so to narrow it down feels somewhat reductive and pointless. Truthfully though, I have been asking myself this question a lot lately, so I thought it was worth writing about.

So, the answer?

I see myself opting for general fiction more in dark times.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that there are plenty of fantasy books that are gut wrenching, I have certainly read my fair share. I also know that there are many general fiction books that wouldn't even make an impression on me. That probably ‘stink’ in comparison. But I think that fundamentally, there is something different in the kind of comfort they can provide.

Yes, it’s true that in both, you are put in someone else’s shoes—and there’s an aspect of escape in that. But one grips you to the Earth, and the other allows you to fly to the stars.

I will still read fantasy books by the dozen each year. In fact, one of my all—time favourites is A River Enchanted by Rebecca Ross, which is a folklore style narrative where magic is weaved into the pages. On a cold winters day when I don’t feel great, I see myself picking this one up again. I wouldn’t be surprised if I re-read this many times in my lifetime, because it’s just that good. It is the perfect balance between distance from the real world and satisfying relatability. A River Enchanted was able to heal something in me at the time and I have been actively looking for similar books like it since, but not to find a source of comfort.

…

The very essence of fantasy is imagining things that in real life are unrealistic or impossible, and that kind of escapism is so important for our species. There is something so reassuring about picking up a fantasy book and knowing that you are about to embark on an epic journey with unimaginable twists and turns. But I don’t think I want to read books like that all of the time. I don’t think I’m the kind of person that likes to escape so much anymore.

I want to read books that undress me when I’m sad. That make me feel naked. That are rough, raw and even depressing sometimes. That are open ended and leave me feeling untethered.

Rather than being transported to a make believe world, I want my soul to be licked clean.

In the end, there isn’t a clear answer. Comfort doesn’t have to come from just one place. And that’s simply the beauty of reading—it reflects life in all its complexity. When in need of solace, I’ll continue to ask myself: Do I need to escape, or do I need to relate? And I’m sure that in whichever book I choose, there will be something that deeply resonates.

When in need of solace, do you prefer to escape or relate?