Random Musing: Disaster Books and Guilt

What’s this musing about: Am I messed up in the head for liking disaster books so much?

I love disaster books. They are all my cup of tea from blizzards and firestorms to shipwrecks (personal fav) and Arctic survival. There is something about the desperation, the heroism, and the adrenaline rush or reading about real people and how they deal with incredibly dangerous circumstances.

There are always casualties in these books. In fiction, you may feel for the characters if the author is good enough. You may really get caught up and lament the loss of a beloved character. But in history, these are real people who faced unimaginable stress and sadness. People walking around with full lives that are very often ended or changed irrevocably. The survivor’s story doesn’t end at the last chapter.

You might wonder if liking this genre is just a slight indication you might be a serial killer who revels in the destruction of people and property. (I also like Investigation Discovery but that’s for another post entirely.)

Then, it hit me when I sat down to write this article.

I’m not reading for the death and destruction. I’m reading hoping they all get out alive. You know from the jacket cover or the summary that many will not. But, it’s like watching your favorite movie when you know how someone will get the axe, but you hope somehow the movie suddenly changes and goes a different direction.

Also, extreme circumstances bring out the worst but also the best in humans. Often beyond anyone’s comprehension when reading along. The sailor who runs into the bowels of a ship to find a friend or the brother who braves a blizzard to find his sister. Or the ones left behind who sometimes can try and take down the ones responsible. Or the last stand of a valiant group of soldier’s just trying to stay alive.

When I really think about it, I’m not reading for the disasters. I’m reading for the miracles.