Some days are filled with tough lessons and other days are filled with multiple tough lessons. Not too long ago, I learned three brutal lessons in a few short minutes. Lesson One: Carrying popcorn in a 30 gallon hole prone bag is not the most efficient way to transport the snack. Lesson Two: A dropped gallon of apple juice does indeed roll downhill. Lesson Three: A librarian who is carrying a bag full of popcorn big enough to hold a corpse should not wear hot high-heeled boots and a tight skirt to chase a fast rolling apple juice bottle.
But, once the apple juice was retrieved and I followed the Hansel and Gretel like trail of popcorn from the middle section of my minivan through the library parking lot, up the stairwell, across the children’s area and into the community room, I was able to stop hyperventilating and rejoice in my return to library programming. After an almost two and half year break from planning and hosting library programs (due to an out of state move), I made my debut return to library programming by hosting a free Classic Movie Night featuring Yankee Doodle Dandy, which stars James Cagney in the role of the renowned musical composer, playwright, actor, dancer and singer George M. Cohan
Unlike my diva days in my old job when I asked library assistants and circulation staff to do my room and equipment set-ups, I packed up tables, lugged out a multitude of chairs, painstakingly lifted audio equipment, scooped the popcorn into individual serving bags, poured juice and water into cups, and greeted audience members as they entered the room.
“Where’s the popcorn,” a snarly older man questioned.
I pointed him to the table of free snacks.
“Why do you only have juice and water? Have you ever thought of making iced tea and lemonade? And maybe you should offer Sprite too,” suggested a teenage girl who was forced to be there with her grandparents.
“I never thought that. Thank you for your suggestion. Please write it down on a comment card” I replied.
With full bags of popcorn in one hand and a beverage in another, the packed house of movie-viewers fidgeted in their seats with anticipation.
“Welcome. Thank you for coming to our library tonight. You have many choices for entertainment in this town, and we are always pleased when you choose to spend your time here with us at the library. Before I get started I just wanted to remind you to grab a calendar with our upcoming events on your way out. We have a full slate of events for Black History Month, starting with the African Drummers and Dancers that I will be hosting next Saturday. I hope to see you all there, and once again thanks for coming tonight. Take a moment to silence your cell phone and enjoy the show."
Lights out. Remote clicked. Blank screen. Dozens of eyeballs were staring at me and judging my competence. Quick switch from VHS to DVD. The movie began.
“Miss, could you please turn up the volume.
“Sure.
“Could you please turn down the volume?”
“Sure.”
This is the world of library programs—many people with many conflicting requests. A skilled programming librarian can make most of the crowd feel comfortable and welcomed (despite the discontents who attend just for the thrill of complaining). When the crowd is happy, they leave a program feeling great not just about the specific program but the library in general. And if they are especially pleased, they say, “Thank you so much. This was wonderful. I must admit I did not vote for this library, but now I want to tell everyone how great it is.”
For comments like that every program, I would happily chase apple juice downhill in heels for miles.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Letter to the Single Ladies
To Women Both Young and Old Who Are Unbetrothed, Uncommitted, Untethered and Painfully Free:
On this Valentine’s Day while you celebrate your freedom and embrace your singlehood, I want you to know that marriage is hard work. Compromise, listening, tenderness towards another, occasional selflessness, the donning of make-up and matching clothes not made out of fleece, putting out when sleep would be preferred, cooking for the tastes of another -- these are things that are expected in a relationship. A lot of sacrifice, pain and toil but there is a pay off and that pay off occurs every February 14.
Single ladies, each year on Valentine’s Day, I wake up and gleefully shout, “Yes, I am not alone.” I celebrate the fact that I will not spend the day crying in my copy of Wuthering Heights, nor will I spend my evening hiking up my skirt a little while handing out books by Lee Child and Michael Connelly to unsuspecting, adventure-seeking male library patrons. No need for acts of amorous desperation. I am not the old maid that in my youth I always expected that I would become. I am loved by a beautiful and exceptional man who is not a freak (which even after 15 years together, I am still astounded that I found a non-freak who not only tolerates my freakish ways but generally appreciates and loves my quirks, eccentricities, oddities and plain craziness ). Not only I am fortunate enough to have the love of a wonderful man who spoils me all year long with kind gestures of affectation and simply amazing gifts (mostly of a chocolate variety) throughout the year, but he is also a romantic who does acknowledge the holiday of love annually.
So single ladies, as I smell my flowers and allow my heart-shaped milk chocolates to swish and swirl across my tongue, I think of you today with pity and say “I am so happy to not be one of you.”
Better luck next year and Happy Valentine’s Day (even if you are alone, lonely and feeling a little desperate.)
With Love,
Garbageman’s Daughter
XOXOXOXO
Author’s Note: Please hold the hate mail. I neither believe you nor care if you are single by choice. Get off the computer, put on a nice dress and go to your local bar, laundromat , grocery store or soft serve place to find someone as equally desperate and lonely to keep you company for the evening.
Also, a special Happy Valentine’s Day to my Sweetie. Wish you could be here today.
On this Valentine’s Day while you celebrate your freedom and embrace your singlehood, I want you to know that marriage is hard work. Compromise, listening, tenderness towards another, occasional selflessness, the donning of make-up and matching clothes not made out of fleece, putting out when sleep would be preferred, cooking for the tastes of another -- these are things that are expected in a relationship. A lot of sacrifice, pain and toil but there is a pay off and that pay off occurs every February 14.
Single ladies, each year on Valentine’s Day, I wake up and gleefully shout, “Yes, I am not alone.” I celebrate the fact that I will not spend the day crying in my copy of Wuthering Heights, nor will I spend my evening hiking up my skirt a little while handing out books by Lee Child and Michael Connelly to unsuspecting, adventure-seeking male library patrons. No need for acts of amorous desperation. I am not the old maid that in my youth I always expected that I would become. I am loved by a beautiful and exceptional man who is not a freak (which even after 15 years together, I am still astounded that I found a non-freak who not only tolerates my freakish ways but generally appreciates and loves my quirks, eccentricities, oddities and plain craziness ). Not only I am fortunate enough to have the love of a wonderful man who spoils me all year long with kind gestures of affectation and simply amazing gifts (mostly of a chocolate variety) throughout the year, but he is also a romantic who does acknowledge the holiday of love annually.
So single ladies, as I smell my flowers and allow my heart-shaped milk chocolates to swish and swirl across my tongue, I think of you today with pity and say “I am so happy to not be one of you.”
Better luck next year and Happy Valentine’s Day (even if you are alone, lonely and feeling a little desperate.)
With Love,
Garbageman’s Daughter
XOXOXOXO
Author’s Note: Please hold the hate mail. I neither believe you nor care if you are single by choice. Get off the computer, put on a nice dress and go to your local bar, laundromat , grocery store or soft serve place to find someone as equally desperate and lonely to keep you company for the evening.
Also, a special Happy Valentine’s Day to my Sweetie. Wish you could be here today.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Condolences to Frieda Hughes
Dear Frieda:
Please accept my greatest sympathies and condolences on the 48th anniversary of your mother’s death. Each year on February 11 when I am celebrating my oldest child’s birthday and embracing the joy that his arrival brought me, I briefly reflect upon the enormous loss that occurred on February 11, 1963 – the loss of not only a brilliant poet but the loss of a mother for an almost three-year-old and a one year old. Frequently, on this date when poetry fans and scholars remember Sylvia Plath the Poet, they overlook Sylvia Plath the Mother who left two young children behind when she succumbed to her depression and took her own life.
As a young woman, I was drawn to your mother’s poetry due to her haunting images, maudlin themes and tragic tone; her complex relationship with her mother that she so richly captured in her poetics made me reflect upon my own turbulent relationship with my mother. Just like your mother’s absence probably felt like a strong presence in your life, my mother’s presence always felt like an absence. Much of that inexplicable absence subsided when I became a mother and replaced longing with an abundance of love. I hope that you too have found abundance of love despite all the tradegy in your life.
 |
| Sylvia Plath with Frieda and Nicholas |
 |
| Sylvia Plath with Frieda and Nicholas |
So today, it is with sadness that I think about your mother’s maternal experiences cut short and your experiences without a mother in your life. I think about how you, the daughter of two brilliant poets, have persevered and have honored the reputations of both your mother and father. You have been dignified and poised over the years as you have shared details about the Plath-Hughes family. And even though the Plath-Hughes relationship was filled with turbulence, you and your late brother Nicholas were beautiful results of that union -- a union that lives on in their masterful poetry and in you. So today on the anniversary of your mother’s death, I wish you peace, comfort and an abundance of love.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
The Last Burrito
February 10, 1999 6:20 p.m.
“Two large potato and cheese burritos with grilled onions, corn pico de gallo, ranch dressing and sour cream on a jalapeño tortilla for me and a spinach tortilla for her,” he said nervously as he watched his wife uncomfortably shift her weight to slide onto a metal chair.
Her husband delivered their burritos to the table and delicately touched her cheek as he said, “Eat up. This is our last meal without a kid.” Just an hour before their trip to the burrito shop, they were told" "Go home and pack your bag because your baby is going to be big, maybe nine or ten pounds. He needs to be taken early to prevent complications. You are expected at the hospital at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow”
Although they had eight months and three weeks to prepare, shock, surprise, panic, and excitement permeated their last meal of freedom and continued to prevail as they quickly made final adjustments to the nursery, packed their bags complete with a baby bunting for the cold February ride home, called the expectant grandparents and quietly whispered about their future in the dark until they drifted into sleep.
February 11, 1999 2:10 a.m.
“Wake up. Wake up. I am in labor.”
“No, you are not. Go back to sleep. We don’t have to be at the hospital until 8 a.m.,” he said.
This great labor debate continued for six hours and finally at 8 a.m., the expectant parents arrived at the maternity ward. Three hours later, they were greeted with a mucus covered baby boy who was 7 lbs 3 ounces, 21 inches long, and was a horrid shade of purple with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. His looks improved somewhat after the cord was clipped and air entered his lungs. Within minutes of his birth, screaming and eating became his past times and not much has changed in the past twelve years, except that he is a much better looking.
And yes, potato and cheese burritos are one of his favorite foods.
Author's Note: A special happy birthday to my brilliant and beautiful smart-aleck twelve year old who gives me plenty of material for this very blog. You are adored by your parents, siblings and grandparents.
“Two large potato and cheese burritos with grilled onions, corn pico de gallo, ranch dressing and sour cream on a jalapeño tortilla for me and a spinach tortilla for her,” he said nervously as he watched his wife uncomfortably shift her weight to slide onto a metal chair.
Her husband delivered their burritos to the table and delicately touched her cheek as he said, “Eat up. This is our last meal without a kid.” Just an hour before their trip to the burrito shop, they were told" "Go home and pack your bag because your baby is going to be big, maybe nine or ten pounds. He needs to be taken early to prevent complications. You are expected at the hospital at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow”
Although they had eight months and three weeks to prepare, shock, surprise, panic, and excitement permeated their last meal of freedom and continued to prevail as they quickly made final adjustments to the nursery, packed their bags complete with a baby bunting for the cold February ride home, called the expectant grandparents and quietly whispered about their future in the dark until they drifted into sleep.
February 11, 1999 2:10 a.m.
“Wake up. Wake up. I am in labor.”
“No, you are not. Go back to sleep. We don’t have to be at the hospital until 8 a.m.,” he said.
This great labor debate continued for six hours and finally at 8 a.m., the expectant parents arrived at the maternity ward. Three hours later, they were greeted with a mucus covered baby boy who was 7 lbs 3 ounces, 21 inches long, and was a horrid shade of purple with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. His looks improved somewhat after the cord was clipped and air entered his lungs. Within minutes of his birth, screaming and eating became his past times and not much has changed in the past twelve years, except that he is a much better looking.
And yes, potato and cheese burritos are one of his favorite foods.
Author's Note: A special happy birthday to my brilliant and beautiful smart-aleck twelve year old who gives me plenty of material for this very blog. You are adored by your parents, siblings and grandparents.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Mysterious Quarter
“Oh my God, there is a quarter in his poopy diaper! Do you think he swallowed a quarter? Did he swallow a quarter? No, he didn’t swallow a quarter. He must have been playing with a quarter, and it fell in his diaper. Do you think that is what happened?” Do you think he swallowed a quarter, or that it accidentally fell in his diaper?” I hysterically questioned.
“Be quiet the Steelers got the ball,” replied my eleven-year-old son.
“Yeah, you don’t talk during football,” said my husband.
Yes indeed, my three-year-old and I learned an important lesson on Super Bowl Sunday, you should never swallow a quarter during fourth quarter.
“Be quiet the Steelers got the ball,” replied my eleven-year-old son.
“Yeah, you don’t talk during football,” said my husband.
Yes indeed, my three-year-old and I learned an important lesson on Super Bowl Sunday, you should never swallow a quarter during fourth quarter.
A Special Thank You
A special thank you goes out to the library patron who saw me leaving the staff break room, stopped me suddenly and whispered, “Your skirt is tucked in your pantyhose.” There is no thank you big enough for the woman who saved me from being followed by snickering pre-teen boys and divorced middle-aged men with librarian fetishes. Thanks to her devout usage of the library and her keen sense of observation, a library scandal was averted for now or at least until my next wardrobe malfunction.
However, having my skirt covering my ass did not stop the creep old guy from standing uncomfortably close to me while I repeatedly climbed under the desk to unplug the printer. This is the kind of stuff they don't teach in library school.
However, having my skirt covering my ass did not stop the creep old guy from standing uncomfortably close to me while I repeatedly climbed under the desk to unplug the printer. This is the kind of stuff they don't teach in library school.
Monday, February 7, 2011
A Marriage Not a Wedding
Texan meets Yankee. Whirlwind courtship. Engaged exactly six months after their first date. Wedding day set. His parents in Texas. Her parents in Pennsylvania. The couple in Colorado. Who will travel? Wedding day postponed. Struggling graduate students. Wedding day rescheduled. Difficult friends who rebel against a New Year's Eve wedding. Date postponed again. A year goes by. Bride dreams of a Catholic wedding. Groom has no preference for location or type of ceremony. Texas? Pennsylvania? Colorado? Where will the wedding be? Bride wants to wear her grandmother's wedding dress. Mother of the bride disagrees and insists a new dress should be purchased from the most prestigious bridal store in Central Pennsylvania. No wedding date set and no location determined. Twenty three months go by...
Until he says, "Get your ass in the car. We are getting married."
Quick phone calls to their parents. "We are tired of waiting. We are getting married this weekend, just the two of us." Suitcases packed and loaded in a two-door Jeep Cherokee. Steep hill, tight curve, deep into a weathered canyon. Rushing rivers like the kind in beer commercials. Small town. Dirt road for a few miles. Dead end. Quaint baby blue and pale yellow Victorian house. A romantic bed and breakfast. Charming, secluded and complete with an innkeeper certified as a pastor though a snail mail correspondence course. The same man who marries couples in the morning leaves warm, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on their night stand in the evening.
Green dress shirt and tan pants for the groom. Simple black dress for the bride. Too cold for an outdoor wedding. An unnaturally happy baker who serves as the witness, photographer and wedding coordinator situates the couple in front the fireplace. Innkeeper/pastor greets the couple briefly and starts chanting a Navajo prayer. The bride cries tears of joy. The pastor who specializes in creating divine peach stuffed French Toast transitions into a little Whitman, Emerson and Tennyson. The bride cries more. Watching the bride cry makes the baker cry too. The baker gives the bride a tissue. The bride blows her nose. Rings are exchanged. The couple kiss. Ceremony concludes with an Apache poem. Finally after nearly two years of debate, discussion and planning, the wedding is over and the marriage begins with a mountain hike and a day of reading by a fire.
No undercooked chicken and overpriced wine. No dancing with sweaty old uncles. No ugly bridesmaid dresses or overbearing mothers. No fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. Just him, her and their private happiness. A marriage not a wedding.
Author's Note to Handsome Husband: Getting in that vehicle with you thirteen years ago has resulted in years of happiness and four amazing children. Skipping the fanfare and focusing on our future together was the most beautiful decision we could have made. I am looking forward to many more days of hiking and reading with you. Happy Anniversary, my wonderful husband.
Until he says, "Get your ass in the car. We are getting married."
Quick phone calls to their parents. "We are tired of waiting. We are getting married this weekend, just the two of us." Suitcases packed and loaded in a two-door Jeep Cherokee. Steep hill, tight curve, deep into a weathered canyon. Rushing rivers like the kind in beer commercials. Small town. Dirt road for a few miles. Dead end. Quaint baby blue and pale yellow Victorian house. A romantic bed and breakfast. Charming, secluded and complete with an innkeeper certified as a pastor though a snail mail correspondence course. The same man who marries couples in the morning leaves warm, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on their night stand in the evening.
Green dress shirt and tan pants for the groom. Simple black dress for the bride. Too cold for an outdoor wedding. An unnaturally happy baker who serves as the witness, photographer and wedding coordinator situates the couple in front the fireplace. Innkeeper/pastor greets the couple briefly and starts chanting a Navajo prayer. The bride cries tears of joy. The pastor who specializes in creating divine peach stuffed French Toast transitions into a little Whitman, Emerson and Tennyson. The bride cries more. Watching the bride cry makes the baker cry too. The baker gives the bride a tissue. The bride blows her nose. Rings are exchanged. The couple kiss. Ceremony concludes with an Apache poem. Finally after nearly two years of debate, discussion and planning, the wedding is over and the marriage begins with a mountain hike and a day of reading by a fire.
No undercooked chicken and overpriced wine. No dancing with sweaty old uncles. No ugly bridesmaid dresses or overbearing mothers. No fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. Just him, her and their private happiness. A marriage not a wedding.
Author's Note to Handsome Husband: Getting in that vehicle with you thirteen years ago has resulted in years of happiness and four amazing children. Skipping the fanfare and focusing on our future together was the most beautiful decision we could have made. I am looking forward to many more days of hiking and reading with you. Happy Anniversary, my wonderful husband.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Volunteer to Bridge the Divide
On one side of town, frustrated affluent, stay-at-home moms call the school district weekly and email their children’s teachers regularly to see if they can get off the bench and be upgraded from a reserve to a fully vetted volunteer among the ranks. In our city’s best neighborhoods that have accordingly the city’s best schools, moms who are not selected to be classroom volunteers or room moms within the first three to five days of school are wait-listed.
Across town other schools send out emails almost weekly seeking volunteers to help with literacy classes, run after-school homework clubs and assist in the library and technology labs. The moms with children at these schools are typically not available to volunteer due to work and familial obligations. On this side of town, many of these families are maintained by single parents or require two incomes to keep the family stable. Volunteering is not viable regardless of desire and want.
Due to the uneven availability of district volunteers, the schools that have a plethora of volunteers appear to have higher test scores, less attendance problems, less cases of disciplinary action and less drop outs. Inequalities are startling district wide, and it is time for volunteers to start thinking about assisting children who are not as fortunate as their own. And really question the reason why they volunteer at their kids’ schools? Do they want to micromanage their own children? Get praise from their kids’ teachers? Hang out with their friends who also volunteer? Make their friends who work feel bad for not volunteering? Granted most volunteers give their time for the right reasons and genuinely want to assist teachers and students, but these most active volunteers are typically found in good schools where children are already excelling. Parents who volunteer at their children's schools also tend to give their children great support at home.
So perhaps it is time for volunteers to start thinking about kids who do not have as much parental support as their children and to start giving a hand to children who really could use one.
Across town other schools send out emails almost weekly seeking volunteers to help with literacy classes, run after-school homework clubs and assist in the library and technology labs. The moms with children at these schools are typically not available to volunteer due to work and familial obligations. On this side of town, many of these families are maintained by single parents or require two incomes to keep the family stable. Volunteering is not viable regardless of desire and want.
Due to the uneven availability of district volunteers, the schools that have a plethora of volunteers appear to have higher test scores, less attendance problems, less cases of disciplinary action and less drop outs. Inequalities are startling district wide, and it is time for volunteers to start thinking about assisting children who are not as fortunate as their own. And really question the reason why they volunteer at their kids’ schools? Do they want to micromanage their own children? Get praise from their kids’ teachers? Hang out with their friends who also volunteer? Make their friends who work feel bad for not volunteering? Granted most volunteers give their time for the right reasons and genuinely want to assist teachers and students, but these most active volunteers are typically found in good schools where children are already excelling. Parents who volunteer at their children's schools also tend to give their children great support at home.
So perhaps it is time for volunteers to start thinking about kids who do not have as much parental support as their children and to start giving a hand to children who really could use one.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Smell My Butt
“Get away from me! You stink,” the eleven-year-old boy yells at his three-year-old brother.
“Smell my butt. Smell my butt. Smell my butt,” the three-year-old screams while chasing his big brother.
“Mom, change him!” demands the older boy, who is now considered by the school district to be gifted and talented but did not use the toilet successfully until he was four years and three months old.
“Are you poopy?” the mother asks the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to use the potty today?”
“No.”
“Big boys use the potty. Are you going to use the potty?”
“Let me think about it,”
Silence.
“Still no.”
“Well, we are going to try today and you can get a treat for just trying.”
“Don’t care.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re all clean. Go play.”
“Now do you want to smell my butt?”
“Smell my butt. Smell my butt. Smell my butt,” the three-year-old screams while chasing his big brother.
“Mom, change him!” demands the older boy, who is now considered by the school district to be gifted and talented but did not use the toilet successfully until he was four years and three months old.
“Are you poopy?” the mother asks the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to use the potty today?”
“No.”
“Big boys use the potty. Are you going to use the potty?”
“Let me think about it,”
Silence.
“Still no.”
“Well, we are going to try today and you can get a treat for just trying.”
“Don’t care.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re all clean. Go play.”
“Now do you want to smell my butt?”
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Book Is a Book Even If It Is Electronic
Ebooks: Love them or hate them they are a technological development that is here to stay. So, it was somewhat surprising to see that a bookstore in Portland, Oregon is calling ebook readers “soulless faux-literary technology” and is offering to give out “good old fashioned books” in exchange for Kindles. The Microcosm store is offering between $139 to $189 worth of books for any Kindle that is handed over to them. They argue that ebook readers are fad technology that is killing print (but at the same time do not reveal if the Kindles will be donated, resold or trashed).
The argument that ebooks supplant printed books is simply preposterous. There is a market for both ebooks and their printed counterparts. To claim that ebooks are causing the downfall of print resources is just a knee-jerk reaction to something new, something different. New and different doesn’t mean inferior or superior.
Somewhere along the line (probably with the success of the Amazon’s Kindle and their announcement that ebooks are now outselling printed books), people started pitting ebooks and printed books against each other, which is really quite silly. The intellectual content is exactly the same, only the delivery method is different. And furthermore, each format has their pros and cons, and neither format has to be used exclusively by readers. According to a Newsweek poster published on August 10, 2010, only 15-percent of ebook reader owners will actually stop purchasing printed books.
Why not embrace all formats, hardcover, paperback, audiobooks and ebooks? Just like there is a reader for every book, there is a publishing format right for every situation. There are several factors to consider when selecting a book. First of all, due to digital rights management issues not all publishers and authors are releasing books in e-formats or audio formats, so you may simply be limited by availability. Second, what is the purpose for reading the material? School assignments, leisure, or research. Your intent and purpose for reading will greatly impact format selection. Third, what type of access do you need to the book? Do you need search capabilities for research, electronic notes or space to write notes within the margins, a tangible object for gift giving or a book signing, auditory features necessary to accommodate special needs, the option to lend, donate or the sell the book, or the convenience of carrying multiple books in one lightweight device? Lastly, what format brings you the most personal joy?
In some ways, having multiple formats of books is just like having multiple types of shoes, there are times and places when one type is better than other. There are other times when just about any type of shoe would work, but you are just in the mood for strappy heels instead of the platform sandals.
So just like there is no need to toss out your pumps in favor of flats only, there is no need to ignore printed books in favor of your new Kindle and Nook. But at the same time taking your Nook to bed makes you no less of a bibliophile than the reader who is snuggled up with a ratty old copy of Tale of Two Cities.
Embrace the content over the container.
The argument that ebooks supplant printed books is simply preposterous. There is a market for both ebooks and their printed counterparts. To claim that ebooks are causing the downfall of print resources is just a knee-jerk reaction to something new, something different. New and different doesn’t mean inferior or superior.
Somewhere along the line (probably with the success of the Amazon’s Kindle and their announcement that ebooks are now outselling printed books), people started pitting ebooks and printed books against each other, which is really quite silly. The intellectual content is exactly the same, only the delivery method is different. And furthermore, each format has their pros and cons, and neither format has to be used exclusively by readers. According to a Newsweek poster published on August 10, 2010, only 15-percent of ebook reader owners will actually stop purchasing printed books.
Why not embrace all formats, hardcover, paperback, audiobooks and ebooks? Just like there is a reader for every book, there is a publishing format right for every situation. There are several factors to consider when selecting a book. First of all, due to digital rights management issues not all publishers and authors are releasing books in e-formats or audio formats, so you may simply be limited by availability. Second, what is the purpose for reading the material? School assignments, leisure, or research. Your intent and purpose for reading will greatly impact format selection. Third, what type of access do you need to the book? Do you need search capabilities for research, electronic notes or space to write notes within the margins, a tangible object for gift giving or a book signing, auditory features necessary to accommodate special needs, the option to lend, donate or the sell the book, or the convenience of carrying multiple books in one lightweight device? Lastly, what format brings you the most personal joy?
In some ways, having multiple formats of books is just like having multiple types of shoes, there are times and places when one type is better than other. There are other times when just about any type of shoe would work, but you are just in the mood for strappy heels instead of the platform sandals.
So just like there is no need to toss out your pumps in favor of flats only, there is no need to ignore printed books in favor of your new Kindle and Nook. But at the same time taking your Nook to bed makes you no less of a bibliophile than the reader who is snuggled up with a ratty old copy of Tale of Two Cities.
Embrace the content over the container.
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