I still buy books. Yes, I buy the old fashioned paper and ink books. I have a kindle, and I can even read books from my phone. But I like the smell of a bookstore and the feel of a book in my hands; the weight of it and the texture of the cover and paper against my fingers. I like to see ink on paper, especially good paper. There’s something romantic about curling up on a lazy, rainy day, or a sunny afternoon with something yummy to drink and good book. Can’t you just picture it? I can.
This isn’t what my life offers me right now. I’m reading plenty of books, but they’re textbooks, full of knowledge but little else. Some of them are even good, and I enjoy reading them. That’s how much I love reading. I even like reading textbooks, even though they require me to be at my desk, computer blazing with fingers ready to spit out whatever the textbooks are teaching me. They don’t offer me the dream of languid time on a rainy day or a sunny afternoon.
Today, on this sunny afternoon, I went through all of my books, textbooks and novels alike, as we pack and continue to prepare this home for sale and to move in a few weeks. I thought I had already given away many of my books, or traded them in at the local used bookstore for credit on future books. But as I was going through previously stored boxes I found more books, and it was like meeting old friends along with new, yet undiscovered dreams. Many of these books I had read, but most of them I hadn’t. So, even in the middle of a work-aholic day, full of boxes, packing, and cleaning, I ran into some comfort beckoning me in the form of a promise of a book. The promise that someday, when this move is completed my dream will come true, and I will settle down on sunny afternoon with something yummy to drink and a good book. Because, at heart I am a reader and a writer. That’s why I still buy books.