A friend of mine—a more successful writer than I am, one who rakes in the heavy-hitting literary accolades most fiction writers only dream about—surprised me last night when she said, “Sometimes I wonder why I still write books. I should just quit and watch TV at night like everybody else.”
That would certainly be an easier life. There would be no struggle with dialogue that falls flat on the page. No hair-pulling moments over a plot that moves too fast or too slow or not at all.
So why bother writing fiction in 2026, when the number of Americans who read for pleasure has declined by 40%?
I’ve tried to quit the habit. Here’s what I tell myself: If I don’t write fiction, I would have more time to spend with friends and family, enjoy restaurants and museums, travel, hike with my dogs, take art classes, and yes, watch TV. I could read other people’s novels without worrying about whether I’ll ever publish another thing. My ordinary life—and it’s a good one–would go on just fine.
Nobody asked me to be a writer. Probably nobody asked you, either. Other than a few friends, nobody cares if I quit. Like you, I have other, more useful identities than novelist: parent, ghostwriter, marketing writer. Neighbor, volunteer, sister. So wouldn’t it be sensible to devote 2026 to all of those identities, rather than put on overalls that make me look like an Oompa Loompa and make up shit in my head?
Yet, I’m itching to drop back into the worlds I’m creating, to find out whether those characters who are living in my head right now are going to do what I think they might, or whether they’ll surprise me. Published or not, the stories we create are portals to other realities, allowing us to step outside our own limited perspectives and experiences to live in different ways. Who wouldn’t want to keep doing that?
In other words, maybe the reason to keep writing fiction in 2026 is the same as it ever was: To find out what happens next and make sense of that ending.
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