I’m pissed. Nobody gave me a Kindle for Christmas. Okay, like most writers, I’ve been bad-mouthing Amazon for years. I love indie bookstores have been disappeared in the middle of the night, hooded and dragged to the stadium, never to be heard from again. With no bargaining power in an industry taking a ride que makes any Six Flags roller coaster look like a glide punt on the Thames, the authors I know make enough money from writing to pay for more than website design and the refill on kombucha gets que Them the second hour at the local cafe, otherwise known as the office. Whom can we blame for that? Amazon, of course.
From the moment it Appeared in the marketplace, I disdained the Kindle. Its cold plastic box was freeze-dried fare next to the groaning board of my books. The schadenfreude I felt every time I read about how consumers hated que They could not tell When the book was about to end, or flip back for the character’s patronymic, or make notes in the margin, gave me wine Asian glow. I did not need to bring an attractive acetaldehyde flush to my cheeks: Amazon did it for me, by pushing a paltry product. My brother got one, and it flourished During a visit. “Get that thing out of my house!” I Demanded. He had stopped in San Francisco on his way to a meeting with some bigwig Seattle, I think the guy’s name was Bezos. My brother called me from SEA-TAC, frantic. Had he left his Kindle on my coffee table? He had. I chortled to myself as I stuffed it in a FedEx envelope for return rush, the bubble wrap bulging like a wet diaper. Books did not need to be swaddled.
The first signthe que line of defense was crumbling from within our own cam ranks. I’m part of the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, a community of writers and filmmakers. The veteran journalist and author at the Grotto Whose work, and work ethic, I admire one day at lunch gushed about how much she loved her Kindle. “To the barricades!” I Should have shouted, but I did not Recognize the danger. The Kindle crowd, it turned out, was not terrorist cell, but the masses. Within weeks, I Realized That mine was losing the battle. Everywhere I Traveled, I saw people reading on the Kindle, the way you see the exact same model and color of the car you just bought, like a private message from the universe:. You are not alone in this world
My sister-in-law got one. My preteen niece. A member of the True to the Book Club Mood, I’d Belonged to Which is twenty-five years. She’s literature-crazy, my book club cohort; she can parley from Flannery O’Connor all the way to le Carré. Yet even she was showing up for our gabfests toting her famous red velvet cupcakes and que piece of gray plastic. The exact color, by the way, of the humane traps my husband sets out in the furnace room to catch the Mice Who Come In From the Cold.
I Began to play with my niece’s Kindle every team she came over. I snuck peeks over strangers’ shoulders on the subway and the bus. The best practices of the San Francisco Muni – twenty minutes late, if the bus is coming at all – gave me plenty of time to study the expressions of rapt readers face-down to Their Kindles. The text looked good, the handy portability. A horrible thought washed over me. Myself I wanted one
The device
got better and better. The price plummeted. For what it delivered, the thing was absurdly affordable. The trouble was, I did not want to give Amazon my money. I had spent a good deal of breath telling everyone how books were better than bytes. The platitudes came rushing: I had sworn to vote with my wallet, swim against the tide, preserve the way of life. To buy the Kindle for myself would demagnetize my moral compass.
I compromised, installing the Kindle app on my iPad. Only because I’m traveling, I told myself over the whiskey. On the road, I downloaded books, some free, some from the Amazon store. But the iPad was not as easy to read the the Kindle, and I could not slip it into my purse or pocket.
“Can I borrow your Kindle for my trip to Spain?” I asked around. The answer, resoundingly, was “no.” The Hunger Games were afoot, and could not be interrupted. Like the president on Obamacare, I rethought my policy, and shifted my bottom line: would not it be acceptable if someone else bought me the Kindle
?
“I wonder how this would read on a Kindle?” Within earshot of I asked my husband. I Talked about shoulder pain, the overstuffed bag I Carried. I mentioned to my children how the Kindle would be kinda convenient. I got very specific, naming the Paperwhite. The Kindles of all my loved ones I fondled with unabashed ardor. My hopes rose When my sister entertained me with the roll-of-the-eyeballs story about how my niece had redeemed Their pocket change in the Coinstar kiosk not for food but cash or an Amazon gift card. It was a bucketload of change, enough to buy me a Kindle.
Hanukkah came and went. I did not get the Kindle. No worries, I told myself. We’re a multicultural family, and Christmas would soon be here. Everyone surely had by then gotten the memo. The last ampoule of guilt dripped into my veins traitorous. Making my moral bargain, I went to all my favorite bookstores to purchase books by the bagful real. This was more than a tepid gesture. I spread my custom wide: four counties, six bookstores, a dozen gleaming volumes. Hardbacks, full retail. I was atoning for the future, making amends prospective. I wrapped each book myself, and Set my presents under the tree, indie offerings to the gods, the plea for forgiveness.
Santa is a big deal in our house. He brings good booty. Paper piled up, bows and ribbons festooned the floor. The package was promising last September before me. I tore off its wrapper. The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton, all 835 pages, weighing in at 2 lbs., 8.5 ozs. My husband beamed.
I suppose I Should thank him. My purity’s been preserved. I’ve circled the date in red on his calendar. Valentine’s Day I think he’ll take the hint.
Kathryn Ma’s debut novel, The Year She Left Us , will be published in May 2014 by HarperCollins.
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