I hear the e-reader industry is doing very well. Not hard to see why: they are economical, convenient, green. Several people I know use one type or another and swear by them. But e-readers are not for the likes of me.
Because I love the book. The thing with a front and back cover; owned. Flipped through and marked in, corners turned down. I love collecting and arranging books in stacks; gazing at them on shelves with the self-satisfaction of a conqueror, recalling from the title where I was and what song played.
I love the thrill of embarkment; of gaging my time investment by page-weight. I love settling down to Paragraph One with this prayer: Dear Author (of whom I am jealous because you are published and I am not), I am a patient reader – willing to suspend my disbelief and forgive you of any clumsy. All I ask for is a worthful journey.
And then I plunge in. With both feet. Often amused.
In the beginning I devour with abandon, forsaking all else willing to wait. But as the heft shifts from the right hand to the left I am more inclined to savor. Then ration. But always in the end, The End.
e-Reader: can you move me this way?
My Book Love manifests in another, maybe strange, way. I collect tiny books and keep them with me, bound together by elastic. I write these storylines; two are journals with distinct purposes; another keeps my passwords, contacts, lists; one holds my sketches; one is for blog themes; and one for story ideas – my stories, the ones I’ll some day write to connect me with the soul of a reader in the way I now allow storytellers to bond with mine.
I know, I know: my iPhone could track my addresses, passwords, sketches, lists, stories, more. Keep me organized and modernized – if I let it.
Which I won’t.
Because I have this thing for books.
Inner workings of a strange mind, revealed