Writers are a peculiar bunch. We’re slow to change.  If you need proof of what I’m saying, take a look at Rick and Nancy’s music.  The ipod has been around for what, ten years?And yet, Rick (a poet) and Nancy (a fiction writer) still listen to CD’s.  And if that’s not bad enough, they transport their music in a brown paper bag.

But I’m one to talk.  When I was packing for this trip, I filled an entire suitcase with books I thought I might read.  I didn’t even check the bag, which must weigh 30 pounds, when I got my boarding pass, but instead lugged it on the plane. That’s insane . . .

But I can’t help it.  I should probably buy a Kindle, but I can’t bring myself to do it.  How will I mark up the pages, smell the glue and the woodsy aroma of the pages? How can I flip the book over and admire the cover?  My husband has a Kindle. He swears he’ll never go back. His has a tiny halogen light that flips up from a secret slot in the side.  He reads in bed, balancing his feather-light Kindle with one hand. When he falls asleep, his Kindle politely turns itself off. Meanwhile, I risk smothering myself with whatever doorstop I happen to be reading. If there’s ever an earthquake, I fully expect to be crushed under the tower of books on my side of our headboard.

But I plan to hold out for as long as I can.  I don’t care if that makes me a curmudgeon.

Too much of my world has already gone digital. All those zeros and ones, all that speed and instant access, makes me anxious.   I need something in my life to unfold slowly. I need time to mull things over; time for consideration, contemplation, meditation. Life, in my opinion, shouldn’t always occur at the speed of light.  We need to linger.

I’ll probably end up being some old lady with a Quasimodo-sized hump in her back from years of hauling books around, but I’ll take my chances.  And while I’m at it, I might just dig out that crate of LP’s I bought in college.


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