Books Are My Drug, and I Don't Want a New One.
I have a confession to make that will not shock any of you that know me. I love reading. I love buildings that have lots of books inside them, whether they are libraries, mall bookstores, or even small used bookstores. I love websites like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo that have lots of books advertised. If I’m lucky enough to make it to Heaven after my death, I want my section of Heaven to have one big beautiful classically-designed building full of every book ever conceived by man or woman, and I want a beautiful garden surrounding this library, with the bluest hue of sky overhead, with flowers of unimaginable beauty and a running brook with sparkling water making the most soothing natural sound God can conjure in his unparalleled imagination, with a wooden arching footbridge spanning that brook. And I want comfortable places to sit in this garden, so I can read in the midst of the beauty of Heaven. Maybe a gazebo, surrounded by these beautiful flowers and green grass with the soft texture of a kitten’s fur. And, while I have nothing against e-books, I want every one of these books to have actual covers, actual pages, and actual feel. And I want to be able to hold my nose right above the pages while I riffle them with my fingers and be able to scent that wonderful new-book smell. And, being in Heaven, I can imagine that smell to be extra-special.
Books and the reading of them is my addictive drug of choice, and I will always reject anyone who might want me to go to rehab. Like Amy Winehouse sang, “They tried to make me go to rehab but I said, 'No, no, no.'” But sadly, in her case, Amy probably should have said “yes” to the pleas put to her. But my addiction and hers have a very basic difference: her addiction had the capability to kill her, and did. I have never heard of anyone dying from an overdose of words. The closest I have heard of this happening was back in 1999, when Stephen King was walking down the side of the road, reading a book while walking, and was struck by a mini-van. He almost died from his injuries, but thankfully recovered. I don’t know if that incident soured him from reading while walking down the side of a road, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t.
Reading is one of the few things that one can do where they can gain both escapism and knowledge. One can learn things they didn’t know before, whether it’s through fiction or non-fiction. One can gain wisdom into the workings of the human condition, and have empathy for a character that perhaps is going through what they themselves are. One can enter into another world and immerse themselves within that world, maybe to forget about the real world and its perils and pitfalls, for a least a little while. One can read a book, looking for spiritual peace, and perhaps be blessed enough to discover it by mentally digesting its words. Books and the words printed on their pages have a deceptive power. They don’t look initially powerful, but once read and processed in our minds, their power can be overwhelming. Sometimes that power can change the world itself, or just that one person’s life.
Not only do I love to read, but I truly love to see other people reading, too. Especially kids and those in their twenties. It gives a middle-aged book-lover like me hope for the future. I want people to be able to read all they can. I want people to have their intellects broadened, their perception of the world sharpened, their sense of wonder always blooming like a flower in my imagined Heavenly garden.
I am blessed enough to have been given an ability to paint pictures with the English language. I don’t do it as amazingly as Shakespeare, or Charles Dickens, or John Steinbeck, or Cormac McCarthy. But I think I do well enough to have an impact of some sort. If I can entertain you, or take you away from your real-life dilemmas, at least for a little while, than that will make me happy. My love of reading brought me to my love of writing, and my love of writing has made me love reading even more, appreciate its power. And the fact that I now have a published book available in not one, but three libraries (including the library in my hometown of Rosiclare, IL, the first public library I ever visited) gives me a glow of pride that I cannot put properly into words. Just saying that it’s really cool doesn’t seem to be enough.
Finally, someone who I was once close to, but sadly not so much anymore, asked me why I owned so many books, why in the world did I actually like to read? I tried to explain it to her, but I don’t think she got it. Ultimately, I don’t think she got me. That bothered me for a while, but not so much anymore. I am who I am, and I’m happy with being that person. If that other person or anyone else doesn’t get that, that’s their burden to live with, not mine.
