Why do we write fiction?

I own a typewriter like this.

I mean seriously. Why? Why do we sit down for many many MANY hours, busily writing long extended lies which we then lovingly edit, rewrite, re-edit, rewrite (repeat). Then we send them to people who might publish them or go through the IT hell and brutal hard work of self-publishing or hide them in a computer file. In these elaborate lies, people who don’t exist, talk and do things they never did, do things that are impossible (Harry Potter, I’m looking at you, boy), live in worlds that don’t exist (Narnia, Middle Earth) and interact with scary beings who don’t exist (Neil Gaiman, bless him)…

It’s just so weird. What’s more there’s an enormous industry devoted to profiting from the popularity of these lies. People who do it successfully are revered and respected and asked their opinions on salads and cats and philosophy. No, I’m not talking about non-fiction which at least makes sense. I’m talking about f***ing fiction.

People in the past deeply disapproved of the stuff. Puritans in the 16th century purely hated the theatre of Marlowe and Shakespeare — it was full of wicked lies and made servants and apprentices rebellious and wasted their time. In 17th century England they succeeded in closing down the theatres (and public baths).

In the 18th century, divines worried about the appalling influence of horror novels like The Castle of Otranto or The…