Let me be clear about one thing: I loved getting my English degree. I loved my professors and how they helped me to sharpen my skills as a writer and a critical reader. I loved getting to have discussions with and learn from people who thought differently from me. Most of all, I loved being in a community of people who care as much as I do about the stories we tell.

That being said, I always felt as if literary academics and I were not quite on the same page (no pun intended). As the years have gone on, so has my struggle to put into words the exact divide that lay between us.

At first, I thought it was simply because they were academics. Perhaps I didn’t fit in because I wanted to go out into the world and write rather than study what had already been written. But a lot of academics write as well, and I enjoyed my studies alongside them.

Later, I thought it was because I write and read genre fiction (often said with a sneer by academic readers). My work wasn’t serious, complex, revolutionary, or literary enough (whatever the hell that means). I simply wasn’t high-brow enough to be on their level. There is a grain of truth in this; my focus is less on the techniques and tools that create the various effects used in writing and more on the story itself. Granted, technique and structure and how is exactly what we were supposed to be learning, but I was more interested in the resulting effect, the product, the story itself.

One of my biggest pet peeves can be observed in the difference in the language we use. If you’ve spent any time studying literature, you’ve probably become accustomed to hearing a story referred to as a “work” or “the text.” I’ve always hated this way of speaking, and I’ve finally managed to articulate why. Put simply, a “story” is alive, while a “text” is dead.

It would be obtuse for me to pretend I don’t understand why we referred to it this way. We were practicing the critical skills of observing the context, techniques, and effects produced by each piece in a detached way. Regardless of how the story itself made you feel, what was it doing? How and why was it doing that? And these are good questions to ask. But ultimately, I think it’s important to return to viewing the story for what it was, a world apart from ours, a work of art.

Let me put it this way. If you wanted to study butterflies, it makes sense that you would possess and examine a few preserved butterfly bodies so you could understand their inner workings in a way you couldn’t on a live specimen. But if you never spent time actually observing a living butterfly fluttering by and sipping nectar and doing all of the things a butterfly does, you would entirely miss the point.

I think that’s what we often do to stories in an academic setting. We spend so much time focusing on the revolutionary technique or critical reception of a piece that we forget what it was meant to be altogether. Yes, art has proven an excellent vehicle for social and political commentary, and certain writers have introduced waves new techniques, but never forget what brought all of us here in the first place, and that was to tell a story. Not to show how to tell a story, not to exhibit how adorably clever we are in our ability to tell a story in a new way, but to tell the story. To immerse you in a world not your own.

I remember my professors becoming frustrated with students for describing a piece as “relatable,” often demanding an explanation. Probably they wanted them to articulate how it was relatable, but I think they missed the point the student was trying to make, that they felt a connection to the story or a certain character. This was discouraged, as if it meant the student had lost their sense of objectivity.

But those same professors who encouraged us to look at literature more or less objectively would describe their reason for entering the field of literature using examples of entirely personal connections they felt to stories they had read. In practice, it felt like they were trying to divorce the study of literature from what had drawn all of us to study it in the first place.

What is the first purpose of humans telling stories? Connection. Sharing ideas and information. To quote William Nicholson, “We read to know we are not alone.” I once gave a speech on the research into experience taking, or the way in which reading changes how we relate to each other and the world around us. To study the objective, the observable change wrought by art, we find ourselves returning to the subjective, what art did for each of us. The “relatability” of it all.

At last, I’ve found the words to describe the forced or feigned objectivity that often characterizes the study of literature: the loss (or intentional eradication) of one’s sense of wonder. To be carried away by the emotional impact of a work was treated as amateurish. But the very word “amateur” comes from the word amare, which means “to love.” We inadvertently imply that the way to become a professional, to graduate from the position of an amateur, is to lose one’s love for their field of study. And what is more critical to art and human nature, the ultimate objects of literary study, than the ability to love?

No matter what anyone tells you, you do not gain professional prowess, dignity, or respectability by ditching your sense of wonder. You simply lose the joy that made you love your field in the first place, the very joy that gives your work life. That’s what turns a story into mere words on a page, and the difference between a chloroformed corpse and a butterfly.