By Robin Widmar
Well, you can
start scanning the skies for airborne swine: I've finally stepped into the
world of e-readers. I've resisted the allure of these gadgets since they hit the
market because I never really needed or wanted one. I won’t bore you with the
reasons why I succumbed; suffice to say circumstances have changed, and here I
am with a shiny new electronic device that's smarter than I am.
So far, I've
downloaded a couple dozen PDF files for school and six e-books to read for fun.
The PDFs were required reading, but I haven’t even cracked open any of the
e-book files.
I have,
however, finished three paperback novels in the time I’ve owned the e-reader.
It seems I’m
just not into e-books. But after about two months of subtly avoiding the
expensive dust collector, I began to wonder why.
Sure, there are
the obvious tactile experiences associated with books made of paper. There’s
nothing like the satisfaction of opening a brand-new book for the first time,
the aroma of freshly printed pages, or the challenge of trying not to crinkle
that flawless spine. I love the progression of book pages flipping from the
right side to the left side, and the suspense of wondering how the story
problems will be resolved as I get closer to the back cover.
But reading is
reading, right? At least, that’s what the manufacturers of e-readers want us to
believe. While the publishing world touts the commercial success of electronic
books, the cold hard numbers don't fully reflect what’s being lost in the transition
from paper to e-ink. We’re losing more than physical books.
We're losing
memories.
I recently
overhauled my writing space, which meant removing hundreds of books from
bookcases, rearranging said bookcases, and then putting the books back onto
their designated shelves. I spent the better part of a day on the task. Of
course, that time could have been shortened if I hadn’t taken frequent breaks
to thumb through beloved books from childhood. Or to read the notes my late grandmother
scrawled inside a few front covers. Or to reminisce about novels I shared with
family and friends.
To me, books
are more than stories. They are ties to people, places, and times in my life.
Many of the books I gleefully unwrapped at birthdays and Christmases sit on my bookshelves
to this day – right next to my collection of Marguerite Henry horse stories, my
mom's hand-me-down Nancy Drew mysteries, and my grandfather’s metallurgy texts.
Try passing
down e-books to the next generation.
The vast
majority of books in my personal library are connected to some sort of memory. One
of my favorites is a paperback anthology of James Thurber stories I bought at a
little shop on Oahu’s North Shore. It rode in the pocket of my leather
motorcycle jacket the rest of that day, and I stayed up late into the night
devouring its quirky tales. I don’t know if the store even exists today, but I
still have that book, its pages yellowed by time, its thin cardboard cover worn
from many readings.
How would that have
worked with an e-reader? “Ah, now here’s a file I remember well. See, I was
sitting in this little café in Hawaii when I downloaded it from Amazon…”
Not quite the
same, is it?
E-readers have
their place in our busy world, and I’m sure I’ll get used to reading stories on
mine. But the experience can never compare to reading – and collecting – regular
books. Some of those paperbacks and hard covers do more than simply convey
tales to entertain us. They tell the stories of our lifetimes in a way that
digital books never will.
About the Writer: Robin Widmar works to support a horse habit and writes to follow a
dream. When she’s not writing about demons, dragons, or firefighting, she
discusses the rampant typographical errors threatening to take over the written
world at The World Needs a Proofreader.
