Print Books are just Superior

Through a combination of daily Bookbub emails and the android kindle app, I’ve started reading some books in ebook form. I haven’t read many yet, because even shorter ones can take me months to finish. I read several books at once and, generally, I’m more likely to reach for physical copies than the kindle app. It doesn’t inspire me to open it.

It might be partially because of my device. Maybe when I inevitably get a true ereader (or a tablet, more likely), with a screen that displays something more like a real book’s full page, it will improve the e-reading experience. That said, I still think I will forever prefer turning a page to swiping a screen.

Ebooks might be more practical at times, certainly. In the sense of the paper it saves, more environmentally friendly. On a long trip, you could bring a large collection of books without taking up much space in your luggage. And the content is the same–but the reading experience simply is not.

I feel like print books welcome me into the story. They draw me in and ask me to stay a little longer. Having something to hold on to allows me to believe that in some way or another, the story is more real. The tactile connection is important. Ebooks are cold, distant. They don’t care about me reading them.

Perhaps it is the very fact that physical books take up space–owning them is more of a commitment. Maybe it’s a generational thing. When I was a child, computers were much less a part of daily life and e-books were not yet a product. I grew up on print. I can’t help wondering if this convenient but impersonal form of books is going to create a generation (or many) that do not understand the importance and magic of reading. That makes me sad.

I don’t really care that much what kind of paper print books are made of. If they find a better, more environmentally-conscious material for physical volumes, that would be fantastic, and I would fully endorse making books in the greenest possible way. I also believe that good books cannot be a waste of paper.

However the process changes in the future, I ask everyone–publishers, consumers, printers, etc.–to consider the wonder of print books.

Another Life #3

One night, I walked down a street devoid of other pedestrians and passing cars, lit only by the white glow of street lamps. I had bundled in scarf and coat against the cold and headed out, walking nowhere, letting the crisp air refresh my lungs. I wished I had someone to walk with me. Out of the colorless sky, pristine snow began to fall gently. The flakes turned the ground to a pure white blanket, and settled softly on my shoulders and in my hair. I held out a gloved hand to catch a few. Under the streetlight, the new snow twinkled atop pavement and grass. It made me smile. I watched the snow falling, walking slowly along the peaceful street, until it grew too cold to stay out. Once inside, I watched in the bathroom mirror as the snowflakes slowly disappeared from my hair.

Melan-Kali

Some days you feel the weight more than others. The phrase is usually “a weight on the heart/soul.” Wherever this metaphysical burden is resting, you feel it in your body. It’s painful. You want to run wild and lie still at the same time, pull on your hair or scratch at your skin.

I’m restless. Calm is becoming a distant memory, near-constant anxiety taking its place. But I did fall asleep last night.

I’ve heard that people are in life just where they want to be. People have what they want to have. I think that’s very true and also very untrue. Like Nature Vs. Nurture. Why does one preclude the other?

“Don’t you want good things?” Yes, I want good things. I want all good things and happiness and peace.

“Art comes from pain.” I can write from the memory of it just as well as from a current experience. Better, perhaps – more intention in the writing with some distance from the feeling.

 

I wanted to look up the roots and origination of the word “melancholy,” but you need a membership for the OED. Or a physical copy – good luck with that one…

Virginia Woolf, one of the greatest writers of all time, killed herself. She walked into the ocean with stones in her pockets. She had a thing about the ocean. Wrote a book, called it The Waves. It was about people, actually, about experience? Or about struggling. One of the characters died. I can’t remember how.

Who is responsible for all of this? Higher powers, with names or without them? An old man in the sky? Or, much more realistically, a power the form of which is not even remotely like human? Is it fate, or chance? Is it me?

Is it?

If it is… is that the weight?

A Lyric Essay

Note: That is, someone might call this a lyric essay. It’s certainly prose, but it’s not exactly a story. I think I like to call it a Poetic Narrative. This is something I wrote for freshman English in high school, and then used as my admission essay for Bennington. This post is in lieu of my personal retelling of Beauty and the Beast, which I’ve realized I need to edit before I post it. In the meantime, enjoy this essay on fire.

From the first spark of a flame to the last dry ash, fire leaves a mark behind it that is hard to remove. It can bring warmth, or severe heat that causes fatal wounds. For most, fire represents both life and death. Some people fear fire more than a shark’s teeth ripping into their skin, staining the disturbed water red with their blood. Some people welcome the flames in the hearth as a wonder, never questioning its presence.  However, both of these types light candles without hesitation, not thinking that the flame would be large enough to start a fire.

Imagine you are young, six at the oldest. It is the middle of December. You have been playing in the park for an hour. The vast expanse of previously unbroken snow is now patterned with footprints and snow angels surrounding the fort you made while throwing snowballs at your five-year old sibling. Now, the sun has almost set, and you and your sibling are getting colder. You walk the few blocks to your house, trudging your wet boots through the thick but light snow, still laughing.

When you reach your house, the white one with the green shutters that you have lived in for most of your life, your mother opens the door for you and helps you with your soaked outerwear. Your snow clothes are hung up to dry, and the sweater you were wearing, which became wet as well, is hung with them. You are now wearing a dark sweatshirt with snowflakes painted on in white, but the chill that had seeped into your skin, as you played has not yet dissipated. Outside, fresh snow begins to fall, covering your tracks and turning the world pristine once again. You don’t have to worry about the snow, as you are inside. When the fire has caught on to the dry, slow-burning logs, you sit in a softly upholstered armchair, under the quilt usually lain over the back of the couch. You watch the flames crackle until the hot chocolate is brought in. You sip it carefully, but still the delicious chocolate burns your tongue. Still, it feels good going down your throat, and you grin as you set the mug carefully down. Your family is gathered in the living room with you, and you all sing Christmas carols until you can hardly keep your eyes open.

Imagine that you are now older, away from home, and nervous about being away. It is not winter, but the wind blowing outside brings the temperature down a few degrees. You were taking a walk with someone you met at this place, and now the two of you rush back inside. There is a hearth here, and you light a fire and make hot chocolate to warm your insides. As you sit talking, telling funny stories, you sip the chocolate. You are reminded of the times when you played outside in the snow, and came back in to a warm fire. You are reminded of home. This place is more comfortable to you now, and you are not worried that you will become homesick. In later years, you will return to this place, and think of it as a second home. In this way, fire served as a comfort, a security. There is nothing menacing or deathlike in the memories of home in the innocent years of childhood.

Imagine you stand in a small field. This field is lush with trees and plants, and the flowers bloom in all colors. You notice that where you happen to be standing, white roses surround you. Imagine that a wall of fire borders the field on all sides. This field is all you have ever known, including people and ideas. Up until this point, these things have satisfied you. But you have just learned that there are things on the other side of the fire, things you could not in your wildest dreams imagine.  You are curious as to what is beyond your field. What could be so fascinating that you could not imagine it?

You have never before thought of leaving your field. The idea frightens you a little. There is no break in the fire, and it is too high for you to tread over. There is no way for you not to pass through, if you decide to leave. You have no clue if you will like what you find, but the way your mind tingles in anticipation seems good. You bounce on the balls of your feet, weighing the advantages against the drawbacks. You look down at yourself. If you go through the fire, you will ruin the silky white that covers your body. However, you quickly realize that you won’t get another chance. If you turn down this opportunity, you may not be offered another.

After careful deliberation, you finally make your decision. Your heart pounds thinking about what you have resolved to do, an arousing mix of fear and anticipation. Slowly at first, but quickening with each step, you make your way to the wall of fire. It does not matter where you pass through; the fire is the same in all parts. First only reaching a hand through, you take a breath and pass into the fire.

The rush of emotions that surge through you at the fire’s touch hit you like a sledgehammer bursting through drywall. The heat of the fire magnifies them until they are all that fills your head. The flames feel somehow refreshing on your skin. Every feeling you acknowledge surges through your whole body, pounding with your blood in veins and arteries. The emotions feel like fire running through you. When you open your mouth the breath, the fire sears your throat. Simultaneously, you feel intense pain, dwarfing wonder, and gentle relief. You could never have imagined the feeling of the fire. Never in your wildest dreams.

The fire is suddenly gone. You look around you. The world you see is different from the one you have left, and yet somehow the same. You feel a bit crisp around the edges, but otherwise unhurt. You look down at yourself. Your previously white clothes are now singed and blackened. Your skin is covered in soot. Your hair smells burned, and it seems a little shorter when you look at it. The ends look strange, they look burned. You don’t care. You know now that this does not matter. It can be fixed. What is important now is not how you look. It is what you do.

You must survive in a world you know very little about. The fire has taught you something, but not enough. There are other fires for you to walk through in the future, each with a different lesson and different feelings. You will not be able to avoid them. The things in this world are new. As much as you will come to loathe the fact, you will need the fires. You will soon learn that this happens to everybody, but that information is not available to you now. You feel alone and small. Someday you will wish you had never entered the fire, but it was a one-way trip. You can never go back through.

Imagine that you are walking down a crowded sidewalk with five books, all somewhat large, in your arms. You are struggling to balance them all and see where you are going. Someone hits your elbow as they walk by. That person barely made contact with you, but it was enough. The books spill out onto the concrete as you catch yourself from joining them. Sighing, you brush off your clothes and begin to gather your fallen belongings. That person helps you. For a moment, your hands touch, and a spark catches on. You smile at each other, and the flame is kindled.
The two of you see each other more often. Every time you are together the flame grows. It fills your entire body, mind and soul, and you rarely think of anything else. Soon you are being consumed by it. The flames burn into you, leaving their everlasting mark. Even with the buzz of distractions through the day and night, the thoughts of this person linger, hovering above all others. If this flame existed in physicality, the entire world would be swept up in the fire.

After many years together, the flame has begun to die down. Now, instead of the passionate, searing fire you felt, the love you have for this person, and their love for you, is embodied in a gentle glow. Everyone who sees you notices this glow, and they walk away with a smile, as though your love is contagious. You know that the flame will never die completely. This knowledge feeds the flames the slightest bit, and they never shrink to anything less than that loving, warm glow. When you die, you know that the flame has not died with you, and so to your last breath, you are happy.

Fire can be these things, and more. It is the extreme of feeling; love, hate, passion, madness. It burns you and leaves you changed, for most things are changed with this contact. You must always remember the lush green world before the fire. If it is forgotten, then all will believe that the dry, brown, earth and stiff parched grass are all that has ever been. Fire sweeps through our lives, leaving barren earth or simply ashes. The way things used to be is just as important, as our roots play a part in the making of our lives.

Near-Crisis

Today I had a moment of panic, similar to the experiences of many writers, I’m sure.

I had looked in every place I could think to look, and I still could not find the flash drive anywhere.

Most of the files on this flash drive are ones of which I have copies on my computer. The ones that aren’t, I wouldn’t be too sad to lose – EXCEPT for my book of myths, The Krishnaverse Through Their Mouths.

I would not have lost all of my work, as I have printed copies and the original files on my computer and external hard drive. However, as of now I’m fairly certain that the revised versions of the stories exist only on this particular flash drive.

After all of the time I spent editing the stories, improving them I can’t even say how much, I would be devastated to have to do it all over again. While a writer can remember basic plotlines and recreate them if necessary, I very much doubt I’d be able to replicate the language I spent so much time perfecting – that’s not to say that it’s perfect, but… well, some of it is. Perfect. And certainly some of the stories need a bit more work before they’re actually published, but they’re so much closer to finished in the revised versions than they were in the original, it’s almost astounding sometimes. I’ve been so proud of what this project has turned into, and to have all that work come to almost nothing would have hurt me.

I managed to avert catastrophe, however, so I suppose all is well. I searched the same places over and over, started crying in frustration, and finally found the flash drive on the floor behind a plastic shelving unit on wheels. I’m immensely relieved, but I can’t help thinking, “What if I hadn’t found it?” I don’t know what I would have done.