As I walked up to the circulation desk, I spied a copy of Vanessa Diffenbaugh's The Language of Flowers, a book that I have seen mentioned several times on blogs I follow. On a whim, I added it to my pile.
When I opened it to begin reading last night, I realized that I have not read a hard copy, an actual paper and ink piece of fiction, in over a year.
I have read a few novels on the Kindle, but no sounds of pages turning, bindings creaking, or the reluctant thump of a closing cover at the end of a satisfying read.
Maybe I tend forward nonfiction because I am perpetually in need of "making progress." Maybe it's because it takes no emotional commitment when I am busy. Maybe it's because spending money and time on a reference book seems more economical than on a one-time fiction read.
Maybe I tend toward purchases on the Kindle because I can keep them longer than a library book and possessing a book is more valuable to me than any other treasure, even if it is in virtual form. Maybe it is easier to read late into the night by the light of a screen than the bedside lamp ( not to mention, I can make the text large enough so that I don't need my glasses). Maybe it's because I already have more books than I have space for and hate to give them up once they enter my library.
Whatever the reasons, I had somehow forgotten the pleasure of getting lost in story and character and paper and ink.
I have no idea if this story will be one I will remember forever. I do know, though, that reading a real book is the first step in that journey back to caring for myself. It's an important part of who I am.
Of course, there is a new stack of nonfiction...a beginners guide to beekeeping, a cookbook by Gordon Ramsey, a book about nutrition for picky eaters...that's part of me too.
Looking forward to getting back to the story.