Before last May, more than one person was surprised to hear that I didn’t own a Kindle or any other kind of e-reader. They knew about my love of gadgets and couldn’t imagine why I’d not bought an e-reader yet. My response was the same to all — as much as I loved technology, I liked the smell of a book better.
Everyone who owned an e-reader tried to get me on-board by telling me how light they were. How I’d be able to hold hundreds of books on it. How easy on the eye they were. I heard so many good things about e-readers that I finally researched them and ended up asking for, and receiving, a Nook Color for Mother’s Day last year. I chose the Nook Color because I’d heard it could be turned into a cheap Android tablet — in case I didn’t like the e-book aspect.
Now, a few months shy of a year later, I give you my opinion: I like the smell of a book.
I also like the feel of a book in my hands and I like the sound of the pages being turned. The other day I considered cataloging all of the books in my house with an app I downloaded on my phone. I was excited at the prospect to touch (and smell) each of my books again and either remember the time spent reading them or relish the anticipation I felt about reading them someday. Then I thought about the books I downloaded on my Nook (and the audio books on my mp3 player). I would never hold those books or smell them or hear their pages turning. Did I really read them? Do I really own them? Can I catalog them?
I recalled the library scene from the 1960’s version of The Time Machine. The Time Traveler pulls a book off a shelf only to have it crumble to dust in his hand. Later he is shown the Talking Rings. Are my e- and audio- books like the talking rings or are they nothing but binary dust motes?
I have read a few books on my Nook Color. My favorite was Stephen King’s 11/22/63, but because I loved it so, I ended up with eye-strain headaches from reading it deep into the night. It was convenient to buy the book the day it came out — but it was a whim buy. I probably would have waited and asked for it for Christmas if I didn’t have the Nook.
Right now I am reading The Big Year on the Nook. (actually I am reading it on my Android phone because my husband is reading the Stephen King book on the Nook). Yesterday in The Big Year I read about Roger Tory Peterson’s account of his Big Year: Wild America and remembered finding a copy of that book in an antique store about 20 years ago. I was a novice birder but recognized one of the authors. Opening the book to check the price ($2.50) I also glanced at the title page and was astounded to see that Peterson had inscribed it with best wishes to a Lloyd Foster. Of course I bought the book. It smells delightful.
This creates another issue — how do authors autograph e-books?
As an afterthought to my last post I began counting the screens in our house then I lost track because I was distracted by one of them. I seriously think this could make an interesting short story.
We have 3 screens in the basement — a television and two monitors for a desktop.
On the main floor we usually have 8 screens — a television in the back room, Clare and Dean’s smart phones, my Nook and 4 laptops.
On the third floor we currently have 2 screens — a television and Andrew’s laptop.
Finally in the attic/office we have 4 screens, all at my work area. My work laptop is attached to an external screen so I can have more room to work. I also have a smartphone and a 7 inch tv connected to a Roku on my desk for distraction while I work on repetitive tagging of PDF files.
So, if I added correctly we have 17 screens in the house right now (not counting my old smartphone in the drawer and various digital cameras around the house). This number may be reduced by 4 in the near future, but why would a family of four need 17 screens? Better yet, why would two people (which we will be once the kids are at college) need 13 screens? I admit to using 3 at a time when I work sometimes — maybe 4 when I check my phone, but I think 6 each is a little much.
When the kids were younger we’d punish them by taking away “screen-time”*. I’m only now beginning to understand what a powerful punishment that was.
*we also established Sundays as “no screen days” — for kids only of course. Man were we mean!