A Bibliophile’s Dilemma

If I had the time, the energy, a rhyming dictionary, and a firm grasp of iambic pentameter, I would write a sonnet to my Kindle.

That said, every time I slip the nimble little e-reader out of its case and curl up with it in bed, I feel…well…it’s like I’m cheating on my books. I look up at the shelves and I see them, gathering dust, no new additions for months and I sense…judgement. Through the broken spines and dog-eared pages I hear the voices of my fellow bibliophiles, like Becca, who, upon hearing I had purchased said Kindle refused to IM with me for at least 20 minutes. (Incidentally, she recently confessed that *gasp* now she wishes she had one too.)

I kind of sort of started becoming interested in the Kindle last year, during the lazy, hazy, dog days of summer, when I emerged, breathless and wild-eyed from the writing of my master’s degree thesis. I researched the device when procrastinating and discovered that my local library had an e-book loan service. No, I didn’t want an iPad, nor did I want a Nook color. I wanted my e-reader to be as close to a book as possible, no Facebook distractions and no Angry Birds. I liked that it had a keypad, the screen wasn’t back-lit, and that it had free WiFi, making it all the simpler to purchase books whenever I wanted.

My crush continued to develop until finally I broke the news to Scott, a book lover himself (leave it to me to marry a librarian). (Full disclosure: The following is slightly embellished for artistic flare.)

Me: “I have this feeling, I think that I kind of like the Kindle.”

Scott: (Looks up from his book, something big, laborious, and likely related to politics or history.) “Mhm.”

Me: “No, like, I LIKE like it.”

A week later.

Me: “Remember how I told you that I had a crush on the Kindle. I think I need a Kindle.”

Scott: (Looks up from his book) “So buy a Kindle.”

Me: “Yeah…I don’t know if I should spend the money on a Kindle. I don’t really NEED a Kindle. I just think I need a Kindle.”

Two hours later

Me: “Yes, I totally need a Kindle.”

Scott: “You said that before.”

Me: “But I don’t think I should buy myself a Kindle.  But, if you got me a Kindle for graduation, I could accept it.” (I justify most unnecessary purchases by making Scott my accomplice.)

Scott: “So, you’ll order the Kindle, charge it to our shared credit card, and I will have bought you a Kindle for graduation.”

Me: “Nope. I won’t order it. I need a Kindle. Like right now.” I go on to list the many reasons I need a Kindle. Immediately.

10 minutes later, I conclude my argument. Pretty much with myself. Scott went back to reading 8.9 minutes before I started talking.

Me: “So you can drive me to Target.”

Scott: “Why?”

Me: “Because they sell Kindles. And we need detergent, and I don’t remember what kind you like.” (A ruse.)

45 minutes later…Target doesn’t have the right kind of Kindle.

Me: “OK, to Best Buy!”

Scott: “Now are you SURE Best Buy has Kindles?”

Me: “Absolutely.” I’m totally not sure.

Scott: sighs. “OK then.”

We go to Best Buy, purchase said Kindle, I download “The Hunger Games” and proceed to not talk to him for the rest of the weekend. Pretty sure that was a Win/Win. (Side note: He called himself a Hunger Games widow for the next month, even though I finished the books in a few days.)

But alas, while much beloved, my Kindle is a needy mistress, and the electronic library loan system a fickle friend. All of the books worth reading have a long waiting list, (just one person can check out an e-book at a time, and there’s a two week check-out max with no renewal option). When the long awaited “your book is now available” e-mails do finally arrive in my inbox, they arrive two, three at a time.

These days, I shush my poor husband when he enters a room. “I have two weeks to read the three books I checked out from the library, plus my book club book,” I panic. I know that if I don’t finish “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” I will be bumped to the back of the 8-person queue, which means two more months of waiting. I’m just not that patient. I will have moved on to “The Buddha in the Attic” by then. And, of course, I cannot just not complete a book that I’ve started, no matter how much I dislike it or how much it stresses me out, (ahem “I Don’t Know How She Does It”).

So now I know why e-reader owners read more than regular book readers (somebody told me the number is around 30 percent): it’s the pressure. It’s the availability of everything in an instant that drives you to read the Hunger Games trilogy in a weekend (who needs sleep, right?). It’s light, dainty ease of carrying around a 500-page tome in a nearly weightless package, so that you can read it while waiting for the train, while standing in line at Starbucks, while at a restaurant and waiting for your husband to return from washing his hands. It’s an addiction. It’s a problem. And as much as I love books, I’ll tell you one thing:

I need to get back to reality soon.

(After I finish this chapter.)

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