One of the ideas from my Intro to Journalism class that has stuck with me is journalism, generally speaking, must be timely. Thus, when I have an idea for a post but don’t get to it for weeks (or months), I refrain from writing. Well, this isn’t journalism. I already write here about whatever strikes my fancy, so why self-censor when I have no good reason? And writing fiction has proven tremendously difficult these past few weeks. I need something to keep me in practice of putting words down one after another. That something will, I hope, be [sic].

If you’re not yet reading The Guardian, may I suggest you start? Particularly the Books section—the staff routinely writes provocative articles on various literary matters. Late last year, they published this by one Zoe Williams on why reading nonfiction should take priority over fiction in times of social crisis. It’s an interesting article—followed by especially thoughtful comments—even if I wildly disagree with Ms. Williams. And here’s why.

Though she doesn’t say so explicitly, Williams sets up a dichotomy between fiction and nonfiction. Fiction is about “made-up people” and reading it feels “frivolous.” Nonfiction, meanwhile, is real and the source from which you can learn. Simply put, this is false. The amount of “factual” information in a novel can, occasionally does, outweigh that in a nonfiction book. Moreover, she implicitly privileges fact and research with only little acknowledgment that other kinds of information can be gleaned from reading, fiction included.

A great deal of her argument’s force relies on the idea of utility. She believes that “there is [also] a problem with the modern novel,” that it has “a fear of saying anything useful.” (Novels must say something useful—residue from a more orthodox view of literature?) She quotes Damian Barr, a writer and playwright, who concedes that the novel is good for informing us about “our human condition” and no more. Barr—and Williams in all likelihood—thinks “we desperately need to be informed about our times, our history.”* In their eyes, the contemporary novel isn’t doing that. Williams seems to limit her discussion to mainstream work, which obviously robs her of a wealth of possibilities. I’m not going to go on a genre rant; others have articulated some of my beliefs quite cogently and eloquently. Merely, to address a narrow sliver of published fiction and to generalize those impressions is not only inaccurate: It’s sloppy writing.

Besides which, isn’t the reason we read stories hundreds, in some cases thousands, of years old is because they do still speak to not only our common humanity but also our concerns within society? They may not be perfect analogues, but there are resonances. If the modern novel has, as she argues, become insular, there remains a long and rich literary tradition to appreciate, some of which would speak to our history and, in some way, our current situation. Then again, novels and stories are not history books or newspapers. (Let’s leave aside the whole narrative-of-history issue for now. Big can of worms there.) Their primary task is not the same, though they can learn from one another. Which, I realize, is a point in her favor. To which I say, yes, read nonfiction. And fiction. Read a lot. But we’ll return to that.

While Williams uses loaded words such as “unpatriotic” and “civic duty” to elevate nonfiction over fiction, her emphasis on fiction being frivolous is worth unpacking. At no point in her article does she suggest that other forms of recreation be sacrificed to responsible citizenship, to staying abreast of global developments. Forget sitcoms. You should only tune in for the news. Music? Public radio instead. It isn’t reasonable to stress such asceticism in only reading, one form of recreation that in general expands people’s minds in a variety of ways, not just the absorbing of facts. Even in a crisis, life continues, and life (hopefully) means finding or making time to enjoy yourself.

I admit, I can’t argue with her point that ignorance makes me feel “alienated and disempowered.” In the face of all the uncertainty and anxiety and stress the world over, it sucks to feel helpless. And knowledge is power, as the old saw goes. But realistically, how does that translate in the real world now? What can the average person, informed or not, do? I ask because I’m not sure of the answer. I’m not suggesting an embrace of the other extreme, a retreat into isolation and willful ignorance. I simply wonder what difference it makes. Maybe only minor changes are feasible. But I’ll take minor positive changes over news that only seems to get progressively worse.

Ultimately, Williams oversimplifies the issue: Readers must be either reading nonfiction (especially what’s relevant to the economic state of affairs) or risk being frivolous. Unpatriotic. Really, she may have been better served if she’d called for people to read more nonfiction, to emphasize how important it is to be informed about what’s happening today. It’s not unreasonable to ask people to read both fiction and nonfiction. I tend to ignore prescriptivist philosophies, or at least regard them with skepticism. Personally, I advocate reading widely, for a number of reasons. But read what you want. Or don’t. It’s your life. It’s your choice.

* I don’t know enough about the publishing industry to say this is true, but maybe the cycles of fiction and nonfiction are different. If nonfiction, depending on the topic, relies on its timeliness, it may be written and published in a shorter span than fiction, which rarely (not to say never) takes that into account. If that’s the case, it may be much more difficult for a novel to speak directly to modern concerns.