There’s something to be said for holding and reading a book; the smell of the ink, the crackle of the dust jacket, the weight of its pages… that is someone’s imagination right there in solid, tangible… destructible form. And if you write your story in a journal, your imagination becomes tangible. Sloppy sure, but not always. Full of plot holes, absolutely. But it’s real, you can hold your thoughts right there in your hands. Your spouse can hold it.
I had forgotten that magic with all of today’s technology, and had actually gone quite bored with reading. Sure I have a Kindle and have read hundreds of books on it but it takes me forever to finish a book, if I finish at all. I’ve had one of my favorite authors latest books in my Kindle for months now and I’m still only 30% through it.
Until yesterday.
I actually checked out two hard back novels from my little village’s library, and devoured half of one of them in a few measly hours. Something I haven’t done in years.
Is it the visual achievement–actually seeing the thickness of the left side slowly catch up to, match, and pass the right side of the book? Or the ability to see both pages of words all at once instead of two-four paragraphs at a time? Or is it because it takes a little physical effort to read a real book; physically turning the pages, shifting it’s weight when one hand gets tired, balancing your phone’s flashlight to read in the dark?
I don’t know. But I do know I’d rather read a hardback novel than an e-book, and I’d rather write my story in a journal wth purple ink than type it on a phone or a laptop. So maybe I am an anachronism… Are you?
