I had fallen out of love with fiction. Now I’m back in its arms – and relishing every minute

‘I lived in the book and only came out for food.’ Photograph: Posed by model; Luis Alvarez/Getty Images

I never decided to stop reading novels; I just fell out of the loop. You need to meet a few basic conditions to disappear into a story: a medium amount of patience, some free time, enough inner peace that a made-up person’s tribulations are more engrossing than your own. You need to stop worrying about the world, stop making to-do lists, stop reading nonfiction about trade wars and regular wars, stop rewatching old episodes of The West Wing with your kid in a bid to explain, over hours of whip-smart dialogue, how the political philosophy of the third way leads really slowly but directly to the coming of the fascist overlords.

Spend enough time in no fit state for fiction and it becomes your thing: someone will ask whether you’ve read The Safekeep, and rather than simply say, “Not yet,” you’ll say, “I don’t really read novels any more because, come on, that person didn’t really walk into a room. That person is imaginary.”