Our digital era

The advent of the e-reader has brought the world of books to an interesting place. I’ve gone back and forth myself, though I was never firmly in one camp or another. I enjoy the convenience of the e-reader: I can carry a series, better yet an entire library, in my bag with minimal bulk and weight. I can download new titles anywhere, their size makes it painless to set up a wifi hotspot on my phone and use my cellular data plan. I get recommendations directly on my home screen.

That said, nothing beats the feel of a paper book. There’s something reassuring about its heft, the feel as you turn pages, the smell of a new book or that more usual scent that comes with time. They look nicer lined up on a bookshelf, they add personality to your home. When you get excited after finishing something new, you can pass it on to a friend without considering whether their device is compatible with yours, or how to transfer the file.

In younger days, I foolishly got rid of a substantial portion of my physical collection because I was enamored with my Kobo. Don’t get me wrong, I still love it, but now that I’m no longer commuting two hours or more a day, I’ve mostly gone back to paper copies. I find myself in the position of purchasing copies of novels I’ve given away, taking particular care to dig through precarious stacks in used bookstores. My bookshelf is starting to look a bit disheveled, and I don’t really have space in my current home to get a second one, but I’m not letting that stop me.

The e-reader still has certain advantages. I expect when I finally have money to travel, I’ll want to load my Kobo up with enough reading material to keep me busy. I’ll just have to make sure to bring the appropriate cable to charge it; I’ve upgraded my cell phone, so it’s no longer the same USB plug. Maybe a few paperbacks and a graphic novel or two aren’t too heavy for my luggage, after all.

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I know nothing

One of the biggest issues I have with writing here is that I acutely feel that I know nothing, so what value could my words here possibly have? I have limited experience, I have no advice to offer, and who am I to try? These anxieties often stop me from coming here and putting down something new.

Then again, what will I ever know? In five or ten years, despite the experience those years will bring, I’ll probably still think that I don’t know enough to get up here and proselytize. What I know needs to be enough for me, so here comes a disclaimer:

Anything that I write is colored by the lens of my experiences and emotions, and is not to be taken as absolute fact. If you agree, great. If you don’t, it would be nice to have a discussion about it. If you learn something, I am honored.

Ultimately, this blog has to be here for me, as a place to document my painstakingly slow journey as a writer. This will be my last post excusing myself for not being good enough. I am a work in progress, like so many projects I haven’t yet finished, and perhaps one day I’ll be a bit more complete. I will never reach a place of absolute comfort in my knowledge, and I need to be okay with that.

I’m okay with the fact that I can’t know everything, and I won’t let that stop me from trying to learn as much as I can.

I draw inspiration from Alanis Morissette’s “Incomplete” and Amanda Palmer’s “In My Mind.” Fuck yes. I am exactly the person that I want to be. Forever incomplete.