A few years back, I ran into Pavilions, a supermarket chain
located in Los Angeles to pick up a bottle of wine to take to a friend’s house
for dinner. At the checkout counter on display were books; current, hard back,
name-brand, bestselling authors. You know, the space usually reserved for randy,
tawdry, name-calling tabloids was now sporting novels. Interesting! A top-selling author I followed was among the writers
showcased. I grabbed MY copy immediately, thankful there was still one left and
held it protectively in my arms, not wanting to soil the beautiful jacket cover
by placing it on the conveyer belt. I’d been reading this author for years, since her first novel skyrocketed into the
literary super-stardom forefront. I’d followed her complete series. I grew to
love her characters, her stories, the settings, wondering where she would take
her cast and the plot next. Her books became comfort food for my eyes, and my world.
I would submerge myself for hours in her vivid passages and be transported,
quite literally to another place, another time, another realm…ahhh, the power and beauty of the
written word. Then, something shifted.
Either I lost interest, got bored, or my reading style changed…whatever occurred,
I stopped reading. But, that feeling, that magic, that sensory memory remained
intact. All those rich, intoxicating places I’d been catapulted to in my past continued
to surface each time I saw her name, BOLDLY spelled-out on her new jacket cover,
her new release. And each time, I gobbled up my copy, compulsively shelling out
good hard cash for a visit to nostalgia.
I’d get cozy in my reading chair and prepare myself to once again be
devoured by the words…
and stop reading…
I think I got to page 25 with that book. Similar best-selling
author’s line my shelves now, hardback editions purchased, started and put down.
The books became more a coffee table
decoration than entertainment. Dog-eared flaps turned over, a reminder of the last
page I visited. All of them…unread. Nostalgia
is an expensive commodity in publishing.
So, with the brewing anticipation of yet one more highly-awaited
novel coming from another decorated, best-selling veteran (the current darling
of the literary world), I too sat, hungry, waiting, salivating for its imminent
release. Even though, her massive, historic, highly publicized debut sat
unread, a relic in hard back, left forgotten in some musty basement where I once
resided years ago. At the time I felt weird. Why couldn’t I finish what I
started? What was wrong with me? Obviously, I was inferior, unable to keep up
with a book that held New York City’s literary circles hostage. But alas, I was
a kid then, on a mission, in a hurry going nowhere, preferring hard-impact
aerobics to flexible, versatile yoga. Now, my pace, as well as my age had slowed
down. Now, I was ready.
The saving grace of Kindle – eBooks. I can download a
sample. So, with heightened curiosity I waited, expectant, treading water in
the pre-publishing press wave, awaiting delivery into my steadfast Amazon device.
I began reading, at lunch actually, and got lost, immediately in the reverie of
her words, her well-crafted sentences, the descriptive passages… yes, yes,
yes…this is it! Finally! Several shake my head moments. The stunning landscape of her
creative vision, her feelings, and her thoughts...inspiring. Captivating. The description was so evocative,
so real, so raw, so there. Then, something
strange occurred. Again. The very thing I was admiring, (relishing in fact) the
element I’d been completely taken over by was now tying me down, restricting
me, keeping me a prisoner. I couldn’t
get to the next paragraph without re-reading. The book was written so precisely,
each minuscule second displayed photographically on the page to the point I
began questioning…really? Do I need to know that?
I made it to the end. Of the sample.
But this time…I’ll pass!
