An Audience at the Allergist's

By Kim

A few days ago I got my allergy shot. Typically, the most exciting part of this adventure is the mystery of whether or not the lab technician will hit a nerve and how large the lump on my arm will be by that evening. This particular shot was painless, and I settled down in the waiting room with my new color Nook preparing to lose myself in Kate Morton’s The Distant Hours for the required 20 minute wait.

Maybe 30 seconds passed before an elderly gentleman asked me how much I liked my Nook. Turns out that he has one as well and his wife has an iPad. We conversed a few minutes about how the devices have turned both of them from occasional readers to voracious ones. A woman sat beside me with her Kindle and declared she reads at least four times as much as she used to. I admitted that I’m a new convert because I adore the feel of a real book in my hands, the smell of the ink and, as a writer, part of me feels guilty paying the lower price for an e-book, knowing that likely converts to a smaller royalty for the author.

“What do you write?” the woman (her name is Jeanette) asked.

The question is one I hear a lot and, depending on my mood and how genuinely interested the audience, invokes either terror or glee. In this case it was glee, because she declared herself a writer, too.

Despite that our genres couldn’t be more different (more on that later) we shared many of the same perspectives about being a writer. It is not a hobby but a compulsion. If you can do anything else and be happy, do it. The process of composition is painful with the exception of those few times the muse smiles and world outside the novel vanishes. Compulsive editing is our mutual biggest weakness. “All the books say not to do it, but it works for me,” she said. Considering that she’s been successfully publishing and selling books for a couple of decades, I’ll gladly follow her advice to keep plugging away as I have been without apologies.

As I told Jeanette about The Oak Lovers and how I came to write it, I noticed a woman behind her anxiously glancing at her watch, yet remaining in her seat. When I met the other woman's eyes, she jumped in.

“I’m so sorry, but before I go I have to ask you where I can buy your book? I must read this.”

I sheepishly admitted that I still have about 70 pages to write.

“Well, what’s the title? When do you expect it to be out?”

I explained that it may be awhile, given that I need to find an agent and a publisher first. I gave her my business card and directed her to my website. I promised to contact her when it was out.

By this time I had been in the waiting room well over the required time, but I didn’t even consider leaving. I resumed my conversation with Jeanette, thrilled to have found someone who speaks the same language in this city of technology, finance and insurance. Gradually I became aware that the people who had been in the waiting room when I arrived were still there, including the elderly gentleman and his wife. Even the lab technician ignored her computer, perhaps because no one was in line to be jabbed.

The gentleman grinned at me. “I must say this is the most fascinating conversation I’ve ever heard.” A few others nodded.

We had an audience, and the storyteller in both of us leapt to attention. I expanded on how sometimes, when I write, it’s as though the characters are standing over my shoulder shouting at me that I have it all wrong. This drew a curious expression or two. “We hear voices,” Jeanette added in the same clear, direct tone she used when she announced earlier that she writes gay romance. “All writers—”

“Are mildly insane,” I finished.

I left the allergist’s office an hour after receiving my shot with a new friend, none of my own business cards and a sincere wish that I had a dozen or so copies of my book I could have sold out of the trunk of my car.

I also left with the motivation to make that happen. Carl and Madonna are waiting. I have a book to finish…


Don't forget to come by and meet us at 7 p.m. on Monday, January 17 at the Richardson Library as What Women Write are featured at The Writer's Guild of Texas monthly meeting. Rumor has it chocolate might be involved! All welcome, no admission. Hope to see you there.

The Future of Reading

Tonight, I fulfilled a promise to my 10-year-old daughter and took her to the local bookstore for something specific she'd been wanting, Xenocide, the third in the Orson Scott Card series that begins with Ender's Game. We threaded ourselves through the rows and stacks of books like silk in a loom until we ended up in the same place, in front of the title she was looking for.

"Oooh," she said, flipping the pages close to her nose. "I so totally love the smell of a new book!"

"Oooh," I replied, "You are so totally my daughter!" and we laughed and linked arms on our way to the checkout. We stopped and picked up a few new bookmarks for her, an accessory she loves almost as much as the books themselves, and I couldn't help but pick out a new moleskin journal for myself. And then I grabbed Little Bee, by Chris Cleave. I flipped it open and smelled the pages, just like my little girl had done moments before.

As we left the store, we stopped to look at the display for the latest e-book gadget. I have to admit: it's tempting. I travel a lot and am known for leaving books on a plane once I'm finished with them, because I don't have the room in my suitcase to haul them all from place to place. (I like to think that someone will be thankful for my little gift, and will happily enjoy their flight because I chose to leave them a present.)

"Hmmm," I looked at the stylish leather cases and thought of the possibilities: Everything I could ever want to read could be right there, in my hands. And it weighed close to nothing. Amazing.

"Mom," she said. "Come on. You can't smell the pages with that silly thing."

"True. But..."

"And you can't use these," she said, thrusting the beautiful new bookmarks at me.

I placed it back on the shelf. She was right on so many levels.

She's old school, my little girl, and so am I. She began reading at four years old and hasn't stopped since. She's spent her life watching me curl up in my favorite chair with feet tucked under me and a book in my hands. When she started chapter books at age six, we would lie together in her twin bed, she reading her book, me reading mine.

That's not to say that she isn't web savvy and doesn't love the latest electronic game or toy. But she sees something simple here: a good book. A real book that you can hold in your hands. And I think she's right that there's really no reason to mess that up.

As a writer, I also look at this new medium and contemplate the long term repercussions. Is it going to change the way we read? Sure. Will people actually read more? Quite possibly. Will it change the nature of the publishing business, or the royalties writers receive? We'll adjust. Is it a threat or just something cool and new? It's cool. So totally cool.

Perhaps one day my grandchildren and great grandchildren can look back on our ancient libraries and marvel at the number of pages we produced. They can flip through old newspapers (by then, I'm sure, extinct) with delicate fingers, in awe of the mere thought of ink on paper. Hopefully they can walk through my house and see a real library, with shelves that go all the way to the ceiling.

And there I'll be in the middle of it all, their little old great-grandmother, sitting in my rocking chair near my daughter. And we'll have our feet tucked up under us, books in our hands. Real books.

Yet who knows what the future holds? We can't predict the future of reading. And as long as we are here and communicate with the written word, it doesn't really matter if it's on paper or on a back-lit screen. What matters is that we are reading.

For now, I'm holding out. Reading the old fashioned way still works for me!