I have a confession to make. I’m a cheater.
For the past three or four years I’ve read books almost exclusively on my Kindle. I wasn’t exactly an early adopter, but when I finally broke down and got one I was quickly seduced by the ease and convenience of it. I marveled at how something so small can make carrying around a stack of books a thing of the past. (I wish I had had one while in school; as an English major carrying around my school bag was quite the workout.) And let’s not forget its sleek design and array of special features to help supplement your reading (the notes and dictionary are particularly useful). There’s also no need to head to the bookshop for a book only to leave disappointed because they didn’t have the particular title I wanted in stock; with Kindle there are literally millions of books at your fingertips just waiting to be read. But, if you’re slightly impulsive by nature like I am, this can be a little dangerous. But recently I returned to my first love, physical books.
And it felt good. Really good. There’s nothing quite like gently opening the spine of a new book, or the smell of a slightly discoloured, well-loved favourite. It was also nice to mark my progress with page numbers rather than a percentage, and even with all of the gadgets Kindle boasts, it’s still much easier to flip back and forth between pages the old-fashion way.
Perhaps best of all was the enjoyment of just disconnecting from a device for a few hours. We’re all tethered to our phones, tablets and laptops most of the day. To give myself a break was a nice feeling.
While I’ll never completely abandon one format for the other, it’s nice to have options.
