in defense of real books.

i feel guilty buying books.


i said it.

i who value words above almost all else feel guilt when buying a book.

(though it should be noted that i who value words above almost all else also rarely know how to use them when it matters most).

the thing is, i believe in books.

not kindles. not ebook readers. not nooks.

but books. real-life, flip-the-page, spill-the-coffee-on books.

i know that as a woman who has no sustainable source of income (euf) books are a luxury that not only can i not afford, but i can easily navigate around--i mean, nothing is easier than borrowing and lending books--whole buildings have sprung up around this concept! (we call them libraries).

but i am selfish. and have no monetary foresight where stories are concerned. i want the paper. and the breakable spine. i want to scribble and write and underline and dog-ear to my heart's content.

the stories on my bookshelf are now my singular story. they are a part of me. and i want to be able to take them down again and again.

they are my proof of passing time. they are my life made tangible.