What happened is that this summer, I read 11//22/63 by Stephen King. I liked it well enough, but it had a few things going against it, namely #1 it is on Neil's ipad. That means it isn't available for me to cart around everywhere I go, since it is not MY ipad. I don't have an ipad. #2, It's an e-book. I hate e-reading. #3 It wasn't THAT amazing.
So it took forever to traipse through. Every time I'd decided to plunk myself down and clap eyes onto my book, someone had lost my page or the ipad was needed elsewhere. So it took forever. FOREVER. ALL summer. My attention span is not that highly developed. I need to get my book, get that emmereffer read and move on as soon as possible. I basically violate them.
|Watch this until it gets to the part where Bruce Lee ninjas a book shelf. LIKE THAT, YOU GUYS. K... Might take a second... THERE! BAM!|
I couldn't do that with Neil's ipad. Pft.
I hate not holding a real and true old timey book. I hate pushing the button to turn the page (my e-reader is kind of ancient but I refuse to replace it lest I drop it in the bathtub). I hate when the battery dies and I have to read while plugged in somewhere leaving me unable to both read and attend to the rest of my shiz. I hate not being able to flip around through the book at my leisure and reread passages because if I lose my page it takes 20 minutes to find it again by flip flip flipping through tedious e-pages "click....nope...click....nope..." I can't look at the edge and guess where-ish the passage I want to reread is unless I remember my page number and go through the little calculator kobo systemy thingy and it just kills it. I need real, tangible, burnable books.
Ugh. E-reading is only convenient when traveling or totally broke. I also hate going to the library- they always want their ruddy books back.
The real problem is that I've been fully soaked into book after book. Five this week. That is a heavy load of novels for a fancy lady who is supposed to be doing other stuff.
I haven't been doing other stuff. Not even my hair. I'm in THAT place, Readers.
This week I've read: Sussex Drive by Linda Svendsen; Dying Inside by Robert Silverberg; The Strange Case of Dr Jeykyll & Mr Hyde by Whatshisface; The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald and The Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.
Because I read them one after the other after such a long drawn out, sporadic summer reading experience and because they are all very fanciful; they are all sloshing around in my head like classic-pulpy-scifi stew. I read them too fast and now the plots are blending inside of my brain. I'll be reading along when I confuse two plot lines, need to flip back but then remember: I have a stupid e-reader so I CAN'T.
Why must real books be so expensive and why must I insist on book shopping in new book stores? Why am I going to publish this without proofreading?
Some things are mysteries.