I did not welcome the advent of electronic reading devices. I saw them as a threat to good marriages everywhere and an insult to writers, who, I was sure, bemoaned their arrival as much as I did. But one day a friend told me, with the enthusiasm of a new convert, how much she loved her Kindle. Every challenge I threw her way she took in stride. In fact, she promised to introduce me the next time we had coffee. Good to her promise, she did just that, not only providing a tutorial, but bringing evangelical fervor to the task. "Look! You can use the dictionary!" "It takes just a few seconds to download a book!" "I love having all this information at my fingertips!" "It's amazing!"
So it is. Print on paper is an endangered species. What if I outlive it? How will I manage my grief? What will I do with myself? I need reading as much as I need air, and if I lose paper to progress, I'll need a new way to get my fix. Frankly, it was fear as much as excitement that created in me a desire for my own e-reader. There's no better way to welcome the future than to embrace the present.
My first day as a Kindle owner was a giddy one. I read the tutorial, purchased several books, and customized the screen to my preferences. Right away, I "opened" a novel, jumping in, ready to fall in love all over again. I had taken the risk and given my heart again. I knew this would work and would last. So far, it has.
Though I love bookstores, there is a greedy thrill in being able to read a book less than a minute after I have learned of its publication. I don't even have to leave the comfort of my living room couch to get the definition of a word. I'm basking in the ease of this particular form of technology. I find myself thinking: This convenience borders on sloth. Should anything be this easy? I'm already looking forward to our first trip together, my Kindle comforting me with the promise of unlimited reading options at all times.
Still, it didn't take long to notice that the thrill of the new couldn't erase the loss of the old. I noticed the little things: how pressing a bar with my thumb didn't get me to the next page as quickly as my hungry eyes demanded; how I missed the feel of paper at the tips of my fingers; how my brain seemed to be working hard to dig new processing pathways. I can't flip forward quickly, to see just how many pages are left; the "%" sign doesn't give me the same satisfaction as does a chunk of pages in my right hand and page numbers to subtract. For some reason, I don't feel as enveloped by a plastic device as I always have with paper pages. The phrase "have your head in a book" does not apply. This is a different experience altogether, and I know that it will take time to feel truly comfortable with this new loved one.
And of course, I still have contact with print. My husband and I purchase the newspaper, especially on weekends. I'll be buying a hard copy of my book group's next selection, because it's not available digitally. Still, I have started down this road with purpose. Electronic reading is here to stay. It may be the most accessible way to feed my habit in the years ahead; I am hoping that nothing short of death will keep me from reading, one way or the other. The new love is not the old love. But it's love. All I need is love.
