Kindle-ing?

I have a Kindle in my possession. I did not buy it. I borrowed it from the university library where I teach. I got it because I needed to review a library book for a graduate class I'm teaching that was only available as an e-book. As luck would have it, the Kindle was not able to "accept" this e-book because of proprietary amazon issues.

I brought it home anyway, curious.

My children, Hudson (10) and Lily (7), love the Kindle. They think it's great fun to push buttons instead of turn pages. They like zooming around the menu, "bookmarking" their pages, and clandestinely hooking up to wifi. They've been reading fairy tales on it (it came preloaded with these) as well as Treasure Island. Once I came home from work and Hudson was sitting on the couch, reading on the Kindle while it was plugged in, charging. This struck me as strange, unsettling.

Last Saturday afternoon, I found myself finally with some free time to spend with the kids. I said, "Would you like me to read to you both?" and they said yes, then gathered on either side of me on the couch. The first book I read was Fly High, Fly Low by Don Freeman, about two pigeons who live in a big letter "B" atop a New York City building. It was an old discarded library book, hardback with a crunchy cellophane cover. We marveled at the muted oranges, reds, and purples of the sunset the illustrator must have done with charcoals. I ran my finger over one of the pages it was so beautiful.

Next, I read a fairy tale "Little Two Eyes" on the Kindle. I held the plastic rectangle between the two kids, and they argued over for got to push the "Next Page" button each time. There were no pictures. Both kids, I noticed, physically pulled away from me a bit until it was time to push "Next Page." And funny thing—we didn't really know when to stop. Was it a long story? I did notice there were numbers on the bottom of the Kindle, "11%, Locations 424-28, 3790." Were these page numbers? Or was I to assume we were 11% done with the story? Neither, I realized.

I've found myself reacting not against the Kindle, but instead, uninterested in the Kindle. It sits in the living room in its little black case, and though I glance at it, I have not yet been inspired to use it for my own reading. Why is that? I wonder. A. I'm at home. I have books everywhere, all around me. B. There are so many steps to reading on a Kindle. Turn on. Home. Menu. Select text. Press "next page" button. And then, reverse all of these steps when you're done. C. It's plastic and doesn't feel right in my hands. D. It's only the size of half a book. It's like reading a single page over and over. I prefer a two-page spread.

Here are some things you should know:

•I often go whole days without using my cell phone

•I do not have internet access on my cell phone

•I like to be alone a good portion of the time

•I write books of fiction and nonfiction

•I rarely answer our home telephone but stand and listen to who's on the machine

•I feel lonely quite often

•The university loaned me a Kindle 4, not the newest model, and certainly not a Kindle Fire

•I have what I call "The Panning Museum of Antiquated Technology" up in my attic, featuring things like old phones, sewing machines, primitive laptops, curling irons, ancient adding machines, a Rollodex

•"kindle" /verb/ definition: a. To light or set on fire. b. To arouse or inspire (an emotion or feeling)

Can a Person Read Too Much?

Recently I bought two soft comfy recliners at the thrift store. They're not very attractive, but I do like the way they smell slightly of baby powder and age, and also the way the cranberry padded velour envelops my body when I sit in it. I'm guessing they belonged to an old couple who has died, or maybe one of them has died and the other had to go into a nursing home; sometimes it makes me sad to think of them. Anyway, they were $25.00 each, a steal really, and though I wouldn't dream of putting them in our real living room, I've placed them side by side in our back sun room—a jumble of secondhand furniture, lacrosse sticks, stray Lite Brite pegs, dog toys and giant picture windows that look out into the backyard. This is where we read, my husband and I. Sometimes we read and then we nap. We jack the recliners way back, spread the books flat upon our stomachs, and doze. We wake, read some more, refill coffee or wine, depending on the time of day. We are very much like retirees, even though our small children mill around us playing Legos or asking if they can have some more Hawaiian Punch or begging to have Van or Kiera for a sleepover. The kids read, too, of course. We keep a large wicker basket of kids' books in the sun room. We have family reading time every night from 7:30 to 8:00. Our kids know that to live in our family is to read. Sometimes, though, when my daughter, Lily, asks me to play Old Maid with her, say, or really, really wants me to log her onto webkinz.com, I'll say, "Just a minute. Mommy has to finish this chapter. See?" I'll show her the book, how many pages I have to go, and she'll sit right beside me, waiting.

We have jobs, of course, my husband and I, but they also involve reading as their primary element. We're both professors, and there are always books to sample, review, read, study, test, assign. We live in books. We live for books. We write books, too, but that's another story altogether.

* * * * *


Recently I figured out that I read approximately 2.5 books a week on average. That's 130 books a year. During a Cape Cod vacation this summer, I read 2 novels and 1 memoir in 7 days. I spend a great deal of time figuring out what to read that involves a complicated tour through amazon.com, Liftbridge bookstore and the Seymour public library. Lately I've been drawn to memoirs about grief and loss (The Mercy Papers, Making Toast), autism (The Boy Who Loved Tornadoes), domestic abuse (Crazy Love), and parenting (Waiting for Daisy, Lift). Thrown in between are always, always, novels.

When I read an excellent book, I type the title into amazon.com, then click through the "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" section. I then choose roughly 5-10 books, then go to the "Search Inside" feature and read the first pages of each book. Then, I make a short list, see if any are available at my local library; if not, I go to Liftbridge Bookstore to see if they have them. If not, I search bn.com and then do the "Check Store Availability" to see if I can get it at the Greece Ridge Mall Barnes & Noble. I also write down in my journal the title and author of every book I've read, then give it a star ranking, 1-5. Currently I'm reading Ann Hood's novel, The Red Thread about Chinese adoptions (it's going to get five stars for sure), and I already know what's next: People Are Unappealing (Even Me), a memoir by Sara Barron, a woman who started writing porn at age 11, was on the Jerry Springer show, and grew up with a hypochondriac mother and a "homo" father. I have read the first chapter "Lady Daddy" and can't wait.

I detail all of these logistics to highlight how deeply important reading is to me, but also how time-consuming. I have never been one of those people who can find a book lying around the house and read it. I need to plan, hit on exactly the right mood and interest of the moment; it takes time. I also have a fifty-page limit: If a book is not compelling me to get back to it by page 50, it's out. "Life is too short to waste on a half-assed book," I'll say.

* * * * *

Reading is sedentary. To combat this, I'll go to the gym, pound around on the elliptical for awhile, watch the Food Network as I'm doing so (sometimes HGTV if Rachel Ray is the only thing going). I'll put the treadmill on the highest uphill setting and pretend to climb a mountain. I sweat with ear plugs in my ears. Across the street I see people pull up and head into Dr. P's chiropractor office and remember what a bozo he was when trying to fix my lumbar; he was all about sports. "You play anything?" he always asked me, just waiting for a chance to tell me about his glory days as a rugby player. I watch this one red-headed guy I'm pretty sure is a drug dealer wander past in black jeans and black t-shirt on 90 degree days. He's always smoking. He always looks in the gym's plate glass windows with a look that suggests we are all the biggest idiots he's ever seen.

When I'm done, I weigh myself then drive back home. This is how I don't read.

* * * * *

According to tax records, in 2004 I spent $985.48 on books.

In 2005, I spent $1,141.00 on books.

In 2007, I spent $1,150.91 on books.

One year, it reached over $2,000.00.

At this rate, considering I've been reading like this for most of my adult life, this would total, so far, roughly $25,000 spent on books.

Dear god.

What else could that $25,000 have bought, I wonder.

•An old classic Jaguar (my dream car)?
•A trip around the world?
•An in-ground swimming pool?
•A new kitchen for my mother?
•A semester off from teaching?

But, I remind myself, what remains after reading a book is permanent. It can't be lost or stolen or die. I like to think of it as a sort of life insurance against despair and hopelessness. Or like getting another college degree in English over and over and over again.


* * * * *

The problem with too much reading is that it's silent. You don't talk or interact with other people. One time my husband and I had an argument about my reading too much, which was really about the way I sometimes stepped out of our real life and into the world of books. It was true. If you read too many books, too often, there can be negative consequences.

•Lost sleep
•Neglected relationships
•Sadness funk
•Tendency to spout facts at parties and gatherings only to realize they were gleaned from fiction and therefore dubious and unsubstantiated
•Social anxiety disorder
•Fuzzy eyes
•Loss of touch with reality

I could slow down. I could do a book a week, but then what? The only television shows I really adore are "Intervention," "Hoarders" and "Obsessed" on A&E—all documentary shows about people struggling with addictions. I am riveted as I watch these shows, only stepping into the kitchen during commercials to refill my chardonnay. If you can be addicted to buying birds and collecting toothbrushes and cleaning the bathroom, you can also, I'm afraid, be addicted to reading books.