Withdrawal
Last night I did something I haven’t done in nearly 15 years. I went to the library. Sorry, I should have made sure you were sitting down before I shared that shocking news, I know. I have read all the books I have, I have sold all the books I have and I’m in withdrawal so you could say my hand was forced. (When I told my sister I went to the library, I am certain I heard her gasp.)
I rarely set foot in a bookstore knowing what book I wish to purchase. I’m a browser. I like to look at the books; I like to read a sentence or two. I like to read recommendations by the bookstore staff. I wasn’t sure I would have a similar experience at the library so I visited Amazon.com and looked at their most recent recommendations for me (and fought my inner demons to not put each and every one into my cart and ship them overnight to my door. Sigh. ) I headed off to the library with a list of about five books, not knowing what I might find.
Upon entry, I headed straight to the check-out desk to obtain my library card. A painless process, it turns out, I had a card in hand within five minutes and was set free into the vast array of books. I quickly found the fiction section and prepared myself for the rush of adrenaline that comes when my eyes feast upon shelves and shelves of new, pristine books.
But these weren’t. They were used, dusty, dirty books. And there wasn’t really that many shelves of them. And they weren’t turned to face me so that a cover or title might catch my eye and beg me to read. And there weren’t any lists of suggestions, “If you love James Patterson, try…” I held my pessimism in check and with list in hand went searching for the titles I had written down. None of them were there. I found a shelf of “New Books!” and looked sideways at all the titles hoping something would jump out at me, but it didn’t. I was frustrated with the Damn Dewey Decimal system for covering up parts of the titles or authors of the books on the binding. I finally picked up a book by one of the authors on my list, although not the book I had hoped to start with. And in an effort to feel successful, I picked up another book, completely unknown to me, so that I might at least feel as if I had found CHOICES among the shelves.
I checked out.
I went home.
I felt defeated.
There is something to be said about marketing and product placement. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of a Barnes and Noble that draws me in far more than the death-like stillness at the Public Library. There is something, even, in the scent between the pages of a brand new book.
I’m reading the two books I picked up. I am. I am trying to overcome my need for “new” and to try to simply enjoy a good read no matter what the pages look like.
But it’s not easy. And I don’t like it.
I miss my books.
I rarely set foot in a bookstore knowing what book I wish to purchase. I’m a browser. I like to look at the books; I like to read a sentence or two. I like to read recommendations by the bookstore staff. I wasn’t sure I would have a similar experience at the library so I visited Amazon.com and looked at their most recent recommendations for me (and fought my inner demons to not put each and every one into my cart and ship them overnight to my door. Sigh. ) I headed off to the library with a list of about five books, not knowing what I might find.
Upon entry, I headed straight to the check-out desk to obtain my library card. A painless process, it turns out, I had a card in hand within five minutes and was set free into the vast array of books. I quickly found the fiction section and prepared myself for the rush of adrenaline that comes when my eyes feast upon shelves and shelves of new, pristine books.
But these weren’t. They were used, dusty, dirty books. And there wasn’t really that many shelves of them. And they weren’t turned to face me so that a cover or title might catch my eye and beg me to read. And there weren’t any lists of suggestions, “If you love James Patterson, try…” I held my pessimism in check and with list in hand went searching for the titles I had written down. None of them were there. I found a shelf of “New Books!” and looked sideways at all the titles hoping something would jump out at me, but it didn’t. I was frustrated with the Damn Dewey Decimal system for covering up parts of the titles or authors of the books on the binding. I finally picked up a book by one of the authors on my list, although not the book I had hoped to start with. And in an effort to feel successful, I picked up another book, completely unknown to me, so that I might at least feel as if I had found CHOICES among the shelves.
I checked out.
I went home.
I felt defeated.
There is something to be said about marketing and product placement. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of a Barnes and Noble that draws me in far more than the death-like stillness at the Public Library. There is something, even, in the scent between the pages of a brand new book.
I’m reading the two books I picked up. I am. I am trying to overcome my need for “new” and to try to simply enjoy a good read no matter what the pages look like.
But it’s not easy. And I don’t like it.
I miss my books.
Comments
The women in my neighborhood do it, and they love it. If you don't mind driving an hour, maybe I could get you into the club!
Also, I happened to notice that you had just read Crossing To Safety by Wallace Stegner... I loved that book. You are inspiring me to find it and re-read it.