I used to read nonfiction books exclusively. I’m not sure when it started. Probably sometime in college when I – like so many delusional males my age – decided that I wanted to become rich.
And so I started reading anything that could help me get rich. I read books about entrepreneurship, personal finance, productivity, business, psychology and marketing. I set aside $50 a month from my salary at my first job (a huge amount to me at the time) to buy books.
It was a worthwhile investment, and I learnt a lot. But after several years, everything started to blur together. Most new books cited the same old pop psychology behavioural sciencey-type studies. They all made the same points, just packaged in different ways. (By the way, I discovered that the secret to getting rich was to work hard, be valuable, and spend less than you earn. Shocker.)
After reading the same old examples for the 653rd time, I got bored. And so, during a recent holiday, I decided thatI would try to read fiction again. This was a big deal for me. My last fiction book was probably the Harry Potter series, which I would sneak into the office and read under my desk during internships.
How Fiction Changed My Perspective
But, where to begin? Thankfully, my team did an informal poll about their favourite books a couple of months ago. So I picked the first fiction book on the list, borrowed it from the library, and started to read. (Side note: Singapore’s NLB is freakin’ awesome. It’s our most underrated public service, in my opinion)
In a span of 4 months, I devoured:
The Enigma of Room 622 by Joel Dicker Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin Yellowface by Rebecca Kuang The Great Reclamation