I never thought of myself as a fiction person. As a child I loved being read to, from the simple tales of Kipper the Dog to the vocabulary-stretching adventures of Ratty and Mole in The Wind in the Willows. I liked being absorbed in an engaging story. Stephen Fry’s Harry Potter audiobooks were a staple of long car journeys in our household, in large part because my parents discovered they were a reliable way to silence the ever-irritating question: “Are we nearly there yet?” The first time my brother and I listened to The Philosopher’s Stone we made it all the way to Scotland without a peep from the back seat. No writing had ever pulled me into a story so completely.

Sadly, for a long time it seemed my love of fiction had been lost to childhood. As an adult, the only novels I consumed were audiobooks we put on as a family whilst driving around on holiday. Left to my own devices, I would have chosen to play a podcast almost every time.

The few books I have attempted to read in recent years have been almost entirely non-fiction. Subjects like history and politics felt more rewarding, the kind of material that taught me something solid and useful. This past year I dedicated myself to the first volume of Robert Caro’s Lyndon Johnson biography — a brilliant book I never would have committed to were it not for the sheer adoration expressed for Caro on the 99% Invisible podcast. It’s probably only a matter of time before I devote a full blog post to the weighty tome, as the book has undoubtedly been a highlight of 2025 for me.

Still, part of me wondered what I was missing by skipping fiction. I remember Dorian Lynskey, a political writer and podcaster I greatly admire, once passionately arguing the importance of men reading novels. His case was simple: fiction lets you step into someone else’s head and expand empathy. Though I didn’t dismiss his argument entirely, I told myself podcasts were already giving me many of the benefits he felt I’d derive from books. Week after week I was hearing different voices and perspectives. Furthermore, though I undoubtedly have many blindspots and personal flaws, I don’t think a lack of empathy or consideration for other people’s viewpoints is one of them.

Still, my relationship with fiction has started to change recently. Almost ten years after the last proper episode of Gilmore Guys, the long-dormant podcast briefly returned so fan favourite guest Aisha Muharrar could promote her debut novel Loved One. As someone who had come to love the podcast during lockdown, I was truly delighted to see a new episode appear in my feed.

Although I enjoyed hearing the gang reunited, I had no intention of reading Loved One. However, because I always liked Aisha on the podcast and understood how important sales are to authors in the first week, I decided there was no harm in spending a spare Audible credit on it. This bought-on-a-whim purchase proved an incredibly fortuitous decision.

A few weeks later I pressed play, expecting to give it ten minutes before giving up. Yet I was surprised at how quickly I became hooked. I got four hours in without really realising where the time had gone.

Loved One tells the story of Julia, a thirty-year-old woman coming to terms with the sudden death of Gabe — her best friend, first love, and fellow creative. At just twenty-nine, Gabe’s life is cut short, leaving Julia to travel from Los Angeles to London to collect his belongings. There she meets Elizabeth, Gabe’s last partner, and the two women find themselves navigating an uneasy relationship built on secrets, half-truths, and their different claims on the same person. On one level the book is about grief and how people process loss, but what struck me most was the uncertainty at its centre: how well can we ever know someone, and what do we really mean to them? That tension, more than the backdrop of grief itself, was what drew me in.

What kept me listening was how vividly the writing captured Julia’s rollercoaster of emotions, and the way it showed her trying to make sense of it all inside her own head. I often find it difficult to know what I mean to other people, what they mean to me, or whether they see me wildly differently to how I see myself. Watching Julia grapple with similar uncertainties felt immediately recognisable.

It was also the first book I’d engaged with in a long time that offered an insight into another person’s thoughts in a way that made me feel less alone. In the past I’ve written about how the Mortified podcast achieves something similar, but it is undoubtedly harder to find that kind of intimacy in a podcast. Fiction, at its best, places you directly inside a character’s interior world, and Loved One reminded me of the power of that perspective.

I found this blog article quite difficult to write. Though I loved the book and have nothing but good things to say about it, I kept thinking my takeaways were the kind of points that would be embarrassingly obvious to a seasoned book lover. “You mean to say you related to the characters? Shocker! You mean the descriptions helped bring the story to life? Groundbreaking!” At times I felt like I was rediscovering truths that must seem self-evident to people who read novels regularly.

But that was part of the joy. Coming back to fiction after such a long time meant I was experiencing it with fresh eyes. The details that might feel routine to others — the way the writing captures the texture of an emotion, or lingers on the contradictions in a relationship — felt revelatory to me. For years I had thought the ideal book was little more than a glorified script, stripped down to dialogue and action. Loved One proved how wrong I was. It showed me that the richness of a novel often lies in the spaces between — in the observations, descriptions, and quiet moments that give life its texture. I had convinced myself that fiction was something I could take or leave, yet here was a novel that reminded me how powerful it can be when you give yourself over to it. The truth is I was taken aback by just how much I enjoyed it.

Having just begun researching my PhD, I recently had the opportunity to peruse the University of Nottingham society fair. With the pleasure of reading Loved One still fresh in my mind, I ended up joining the university’s book club and committed to reading Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray for their first meeting. I can’t claim I’ve suddenly transformed into a fully-fledged fiction reader — it’s too early for that — but after years of struggling to read fiction, I’m genuinely chuffed to say I’ve completed two novels in little more than a month.

If nothing else, Loved One reignited something I’d forgotten — the simple joy of being excited to listen to fiction.

Image taken from People Magazine