Welcome to Friday and the weekly blog that Vikki at VikLit thought of well over a year ago. It is a way we pause to celebrate the small things that together make our lives richer. Reading the posts over the months will open your eyes to the many, many ways we touch delight and celebrate it. The hop is still open if you want to join, and it has drawn a wonderful group that posts, remembers, celebrates and just generally supports and cheers you on.
.here are lovely people involved in posting, remembering, celebrating and being just generally awesome – rather like yourself, don’t you think?
The information on the hop is below. Why don’t you join? Or, at least, visit the various posts and smile.
(I wouldn’t have done it anyhow. I like the thing. The cutlass, that is). I will say that my review and corrections are being done, preliminarily, on my uploaded MS using the Fire.
But books have a feel, a sense of completeness. If I hold my volume of Treasure Island (Stevenson) in my hands, I have a sense of holding the entire adventure between my two palms. Jim Hawkins, Long John Silver (one of the most chilling villains I’ve encountered – and you never suspect him till the end), the parrot, Captain Flint, Captain Alexander Smollet, and the plague-ridden island.
You can hold a book, linger over it. If you’re in the right place you can nearly bathe in it:
My library, such as it is, is not quite as palatial as this one, but the idea is the same. I do have to dust it. At least it is not as chaotic as this one:
Actually, that one might have a few too many books, and I’d be afraid that the shelves might come down.
Books are tangible in a way the electronic readers are not. You can hold them, smell them… Though I suppose that if an e-reader exploded there would certainly be a smell…
You can mark them up. (My ms is marked up. Little yellow squares with little blue boxes. If I click on them successfully, up come my notes. they *are* handy, but oh so unromantic. Rather like emails instead of handwritten letters. Written in fountain pen. I am told, though, that my letters are eternal because they are hard to read.
But I digress. I do like the fact that I can indulge my terror of being left without something to read but not wanting to do damage to my spine by trundling along a suitcase full of books simply by bringing my e-reader. They have their uses…
This poem expresses it well:
|The parking garage for the Kansas City public library|