Yesterday was one of those days when I didn't feel like doing much. No particular reason...I just wanted to crash. Consequently, I picked up a James Patterson paperback novel, Pop Goes the Weasel, and spent part of the day in our sun room remembering Alex Cross and his morally-laced detective escapades. It's an old one, 1999, but I can't keep up with Patterson, so I pick and choose and try hard to keep them in order. It was a good read.
When I had finished it was one of those melancholy moments when I hated to read the last page and close the book. Patterson has a style of writing which brings out the character of Alex Cross in such a way that I know him. He's a good friend. I hated to see him get on the plane and leave after a too-short visit.
Books do that to me. It's not only about fantasy and tapping that part of my brain that relishes a good chase or a testy courtroom scene. It's also about becoming re-acquainted with good friends, visiting a new place, learning a new technique, or just plain enjoying release from the current mode. I relish good writing...the kind of writing that, when finished with a book, I lean back and say to myself, "Damn, that was good!"
I can't do that with an electronic book or a computerized article. There are different forms of appreciation which accompany electronically-processed literature and material, and some of them are really positive. But it's not the same as the page-turning, coffee-spilled-on-a page, move-the-bookmark reading of a real book.
About once a year I feel the need to rant about this topic. It's my chance to report the good feeling that comes from having seen a young girl pouring over a copy of a Harry Potter book. She and I both know that there are movies about the same story out there, and, in all probability, the kid will have seen it or is planning to see it. But the reading of the book is an experience that excites another part of that kid's brain.
The other night I was at a meeting where the woman behind me loaned me a pen to sign a form. She also loaned me the book she was reading to use as a hard surface to write on, and she beamed as she told me about the book she was reading. It was a very sweet moment in the midst of a contentious meeting.
On New Year's eve one of my best friends handed me a book to read in a genre I would never have chosen myself. It is a book of short pieces written by a fly fisherman, a sport I've never tried. He encouraged me to put my prejudices about fly fishing aside and read the stories. They are wonderful little vignettes which transport me to a place I've never been...kind of like going to Montana for the first time.
The same thing happened a month ago when an old friend loaned me a book about sailing...an activity that makes me sea sick. Same experience...it doesn't matter what the venue is, the writing is good and the stories are worth remembering.
My point...a pretty transparent one...is that the value of reading is enhanced many-fold by holding a book in one's hand. Reading is an intellectual activity involving some pretty sophisticated brain functions. But it is also tactile, involving the feel of the page between one's fingers. It also involves an olfactory sense. The smell of a good book is unlike any other scent I know. I promise, I won't go through all the senses...you get the point.
I've just finished writing a Tween novel, and the enticements to publish it online are great. It is easier than searching for an agent or a publisher. It takes a lot less time. It is much less expensive than paper publishing. But I don't want to deprive those kids of the opportunity to hold my book in their hands, to place it on their reading shelf when they have finished it, or to stuff it into their knapsack to lug around to read whenever the spirit moves them. Maybe, just maybe, I'll walk into my favorite coffee place and see a kid reading it. Wouldn't that be the best?
Photo Credit: booksonthenightstand.com
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