Paperback

I hate Kindles. I hate Nooks. And I really, really hate iPads. Don’t get me wrong. I truly admire our continuous advancement in innovative technology. But there’s something truly magical about opening a book, flipping through its pages, and being transported into a world that you never knew existed.

And that’s why, at 8:55 this morning, I stood outside of Barnes & Noble in the humid Texas heat, waiting for Gus to unlock the front door. When you walk into a bookstore, there is an unspoken expectation that your day, your week, and ultimately the rest of your life is going to change. Being the first person of the day in a bookstore is like opening the Wardrobe for the first time and stepping into Narnia, or solemnly swearing that you are up to no good before entering the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts. Anything and everything is possible, and each possibility is lined up in neat, little rows on sturdy, brown shelves, waiting for you to open them.

Here are the facts: When I was a kid, I was very unattractive, and completely uncoordinated. I had purple, wire-framed glasses, baggy overalls from the Gap, and more orthadonture in my mouth than I care to think about. I was picked last in P.E. every day—and not just second to last, or third to last, but very last. I was the least desirable choice for kickball, soccer, volleyball, and every other torturous sport that nerdy kids are forced to endure throughout grade school. Needless to say, having a swift kick or a strong arm was absolutely crucial throughout my elementary education. So what if I won first place in the Spelling Bee, or knew all 50 states and capitals? In order to be popular, you had to good at sports. I envied all the other girls with their 20/20 vision and neatly organized softball trophies. I was jealous of the boys, too, because even they got invited to our first co-ed birthday parties in the third grade. I was an outcast, and every single one of my imaginary friends was sick of hearing about it.

The problem was that I saw myself differently than all the other kids did. In my world, I was solving mysteries with the Boxcar Children, and fighting dragons alongside Harry Potter. I was strong and brave like Jessie Watson, and I was cunning and witty like Hermione Granger. My best friends were the Bailey School Kids, and I knew every single student at Wayside School. I understood Stanley Yelnats, Mia Thermopolis, and Wilma Sturtz. They were invisible, but they were powerful and smart. With every turn of a page, I drifted farther and farther away from my life as a third grade nobody. I could do something, be somebody, change the world. I wasn’t scraggly and scrawny with messy hair and crooked glasses, I was a wizard or a princess or a detective waiting to happen.

I had a ritual when reading these books. I would hide under my sheets with a flashlight, or prop up my copy of Just As Long As We’re Together inside my math book (because really, who needs fractions anyway?). As I would read, I would ruffle through the back pages over and over, watching them grow thinner and thinner as the hours went on. When I was finished, I would flip frantically through the whole book, searching for my favorite parts so that I could re-read them over again. I never wanted the story to end, until I found a new hero or heroine at the library the next day. I fell in love with the characters, the plot twists, and the dialogue in a way that made me believe that I could be just as amazing as the people I read stories about.

Which is why my heart sank into my stomach this morning when Gus shook his head and told me, “I don’t think we have that book released in paperback yet. Maybe you should try downloading it for you electronic reader.”

I can’t make the switch to e-books. I’m not sure if I ever will. Mostly because I’ll never grow out of being a scared, nine-year-old girl, seeking the comfort of the rustling pages and musty, old smells that come from years of re-reading your favorite chapters over again.

So thank you, J.K Rowling. Thank you, Gertrude Chandler Warner, Marcia Thornton Jones, and Debbie Dadey. Thank you Louis Sachar, Meg Cabot, and Gail Carson Levine. Thank you Judy Blume and Stephen Chbosky and Laurie Halse Anderson. I can never thank any of you enough for giving me super powers when I was invisible.