I’ve tried it many times, and I’ve failed every time. I can’t read ebooks. Guess I just have to accept that.
I’ve tried so hard to get excited about the modern revolution and the “all new” kindle that Amazon releases every now and then. But when I try to read a book on my device, I can’t feel anything other than the pressure of finishing a chore.
It’s like dandruff at the back of my head, hiding in plain sight and disrupting my sleep until I’m rid of it. I spend almost 12 hours a day at work going through research papers, Facebook statuses, tech magazines, how-to guides, blogs, forum topics, Twitter updates, technical documents, and even tips for the solo traveler. And at the end of such a day, if I have to stare at more fiction on a screen, I just can’t.
Pity plenty of authors nowadays prefer self-publishing and ebooks. As someone who wants to call herself a writer, it’s ironic that I can’t stand the non-existent smell of a shatter-proof scratch guard, and the heat of the declining battery.
I still want to feel the frayed edges of a book and curse the one who handled it before me. I like my mind nagging me every time I put a book inside my bag; what if the edges get damaged? I still strive to finish reading a book with the spine erect as if it had never been opened.
I enjoy the mild weight of a book nestled between my favourite pyjamas in my backpack while I travel home. I want to feel the thrill of flipping through a page, the dread that comes with pages attached to one another, and the quickening of my pulse when I reach the end of a dangling chapter.
And I still want to be able to shut a book with a snap, look into the wall opposite me and go, “Wow!”
I’m just an old-fashioned reader who wants to (one day) become a published author — the good ol’ fashioned way. I know the word’s moving towards electronic reading. It may not be the best of times for my kind of people, but — though Dickens may protest — it’s not the worst of times either.