People like me used to be called bookworms, beetle larvae that eat paper and glue. In the age of eReaders, we’re more like PacMen. Either way, I admit that I am addicted to reading. Here’s how I know:
I was reading Empty Mansions, the story of heiress Hugette Clark, and before I fell asleep, I finished it. I quickly scanned my Kindle “home” page and realized that I didn’t have another book in queue. It was nearly 1 a.m. Most people would have put down the Kindle or book and called it a night. Not me. I needed another book. I didn’t have one in mind, so I decided to peruse the online bookstore to find my next read – an Anna Quindlen book, Still Life with Bread Crumbs. The Pulitzer Prize winning The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt also caught my eye; I ordered that, too. Which one to read first? Anna Quindlen won. It beckoned me like an unopened present. One tap, and I was hooked. I kept reading until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more.
I can’t remember how many years I have owned a Kindle, but the one I have now is my second. I thought I would miss the feel and smell of books; I don’t. I easily made the transition from turning paper pages to tapping a screen. I love the convenience, especially when I travel. It’s like carrying my bookshelf and a bookstore in my purse. The whole amazing concept didn’t hit me until I woke up that particular morning and confessed to my husband the real reason I didn’t get enough sleep.
As I replayed it in my head, it sounded like a dream: I went to the bookstore, looked over books that were recommended to me based on my reading history, read the reviews and made my purchases – in my pajamas, lying in bed next to my sleeping spouse.
As far as addiction goes, reading is a good one, except when it eats away at my sleep. Sometimes I wish someone would save me from myself, especially at 1 a.m., and with the timbre of authority shout, “Lights out!”