How I Feel About Books

Those who know me best know that I don’t cry often. I can cry, I just, don’t. I'll withdraw, or glare, scribble madly into a notebook or pace the floor in frustration, but tears are something that usually do not come easily to me. However, this character trait seems null and void when regarding a good book.

I’ve been able to read since I was four. So that basically means, I met my best friends when I was four and have never looked back. I absolutely love books. Growing up, they were my most constant companions. They were never fickle or angry, never unavailable, and never looked to me to be something that I am not. While we may not have had much money for some things, I always had a book. Or rather, a pile of them.

I have shed more tears within the pages of a worthy book than even I can comprehend. I live through books, feel through them, and have had my real-world wounds and misunderstandings healed through them. I have been taught the downfalls of vanity by Dorian Gray, explored the universe with Ender, and felt the losses of Harry Potter. Bella Swan is my friend. I know her innermost thoughts, and see her heart as plain as day. Also among my group of friends are Princess Buttercup and her darling Westley, and the innocent Jonas, as he becomes The Giver. I have lived across the span of centuries, overseen the construction of A Brave New World, and shuddered when confronted with the tactics of the original Big Brother.  As characters have suffered injustices, I have faced their pain. I have been poor, abused, discriminated against, and abandoned through their eyes. I have also overcome opposition, fought the good fight, and unwittingly fallen in love with Peeta Mellark.  

While real life is something that you must wake up to every day, I take my emotional choices much more slowly. You can’t undo harsh words, or undeclare your feelings for someone. People change as their circumstances change, and it can happen in the blink of an eye. In life, I try, and most often times fail, to be as impassive as a rock. My goal is to keep calm, stay strong, and do as little damage as possible. I am not the girl that runs to her hero weak in the knees. I hand out the tissues, pat the backs, and design the plans that will save us. The world is a beautiful, enchanting place, but there are many things within its grasp that are destined to hurt us. Life will separate us, join us together, and leave us crawling on our knees if we’re not careful. It’s a good thing we’re tough.

Between hard bound covers though, is the only place I can ever let my guard down. I release torrents of emotion, littering the dog-eared corners and chapters inside. I have been known to laugh out loud while reading, regardless of my present location. I will storm like a hurricane within a house, pacing angrily, and when asked what’s wrong, I merely stomp over to the book, point at it furiously, and look at you pointedly as if to say, ‘I don’t BELIEVE what he/she thinks they are doing!’ and storm away again in a flurry. Within minutes you will find me huddled up close, my nose buried next to the printed words, seeking redemption, reason, an answer. You had better not interrupt me in my searching either, or pay a most unwelcome price…

Maybe that’s why I love them so much. After all, books are known to give us answers. We can find the answer to anything in the world so long it is prefaced by a title page. Broken hearts, broken lives, broken bones, we bring our souls to a well-worn favorite, and it fits around us like an old sweater. It is always, comfortingly, the same. The message we take from it may be different, who we identify with, who we fear, and who we love. But the story is essentially the same. It’s the most secure thing in my life.

 Meg Murray will always take form in my head, beginning with the words, “It was a dark and stormy night.” And I’ll always read it hearing my own voice read the right pages, and my dad reading on the left. And as we read way past my bedtime, we sneakily insert words into the sentences that don’t actually exist, to see if the other is paying attention.  Then we peek over, real quick, to see if they noticed. When they invariably do, looking back up at you from behind their narrowed eyebrows as they try not to smile, you reread the sentence the way Madeleine L'Engle intended it to be read. With laughter, a sense of adventure, and inescapably, a few tears along the way. 

Notice of Overdue Books

I don't handle deadlines very well. Any type of deadline, I generally have a mild to severe negative reaction to. It's like a disease, except one that people don't sympathize with. They do, however, get irritated and their face can turn many shades of various pretty colors. Pretty fascinating to watch as long as you’re not trapped in a small room with them at the same time.  Let me start by saying that I mean well. If you need tips on having good intentions, I'm pretty much an expert; I just don't have much follow through. Let me explain...

Library books: People who go to the library look smart, ergo; I want to go to the library too! I like books, and have the ability to read, and live about a ten minute train ride away from a library. All good, except for pesky due dates! A due date is a deadline. 'You must be finished with your text selections by THIS DATE!' I never am.

 I take care of the books, I never spill staining liquids on the title page, future readers never need to pry open two pages glued together with a mysteriously sticky substance, and if you were to read a book after me, you wouldn't get to the last chapter and find half of it torn out or chewed. Nope, instead of that, you just won't see the book at all, in any of its well-kept glory.

 Renewing books only gives me a false sense of security. 'Sure, I'll make to the library during this month. What type of person doesn't visit the library that often? Man, I’d be so embarrassed if I only went there sometimes, in fact, it’s my mission to be a ‘regular’ at the library from now on!’ (One month later) "Shit. Uhh, how much do I owe you? "

You see, I'm so bad with deadlines, I have turned the free book system into another bill. I have paid more than I care to admit in order to appease the literary powers that be. My money probably goes to help fix the books the rest of the people return all gross, but on time. Really, I could just stop going altogether, but I like the idea of being an upstanding citizen.  Like if I win some huge award at the Mayor's office, and the news anchor was introducing me, he could be all "So and so is a fine example of responsibility and character in our society." And then his co-anchor would chime in, "That’s right Chuck, she even goes to the LIBRARY!" The studio audience would ‘ooh’ and ‘aahh’, and everyone at home would soften their glances, tear up a little, and believe in good again.

So, you see, I can't just NOT go. I mean, the fate of the world sort of depends on it. So, as I shuffle my feet up to the checkout desk, (Once you have an abundance of fees, the privilege of self-checkout is removed temporarily; I have a sinking feeling it comes down to the fact they don't trust you after a while.) I mumble to the 19 year old girl manning the desk who looks like she’s never had a fine during her entire span of life, “I, umm, hi! Uh, how are you? Gooood, sooooo, I'm going to hand you my card, but… just....don't judge me okay? Like, okay, you can judge me, but can you do it only in your head? And can you think quiet thoughts, so I can't hear them? I may have a fee, little, of course. Or big, actually. But, uhh, (speaking lightning speed now) IneedtoknowhowmuchIactuallyhavetohavepaidofthatcatastrophicamount, so you'll let me use the self-checkout again. Because, let's face it, this is just awkward and I do much better when talking to a machine and not a human, and I don't even know if your computer has numbers that big, and yeah, okay, just, here." (I hand over the card.)

 I don't even look to see their judgment, as the weight of shame pulls my gaze downward, to the counter, to my hands, to the floor. I slide over my debit card, mentally apologizing to my checking account. But, hey, wait a minute; you know, really, I'm donating all this money to spread knowledge and goodwill to my city. At this thought, I perk up a bit, 'yeah, I'm doing something pretty, well, good! Helping out my community, inspiring children, removing soda soaked pages off of shelves! You're welcome, fellow patrons, you're welcome!'

 I take back my card, look the teller/cashier/checker outter of books right in the eye, and smile. "Have a great day!" I tell her, and I turn to leave. I don't look back to see how they are recovering from being my financial liaison into the world of library fines, but I've never had the same person help me twice. Can't imagine why.