“Here’s how I came to terms with what I missed.”
You go to a book fair like a child at the entrance to a carnival or a toy store. To say you are excited is an understatement. Your cannot wait to present your ticket, go through the door, and step into a magical kingdom.
Your eyes practically pop at the sight of different booths. It is a heaven of sorts — if you dare imagine this is what heaven could be, a happy place. You do not know which way to go first. You want to be everywhere all at once.
The sight of throngs of people, which would normally turn you off, is oddly reassuring. You feel an affinity with those strangers and you wonder whether they feel the same way that you do. You are happy that contrary to expectations in this digital age, many are finding, or returning to, the printed page. There is hope!
You see children’s books and you are happy that today’s young readers have more at their disposal. An image flashes: You reading to your imaginary future grandchildren. That won’t be for a while, but it’s a nice thought, anyway.
At the booths of the publishing houses, the sight of the titles lures you. Pick me, one seems to say. But the other one looks good, too. Oh, wait – this is one you’ve been wanting to read for a while. Why not both or all? You remind yourself you have to stick to a budget.
You see the authors signing books and obliging your request for a selfie. These are names you just read about, and read, these greats, and they are there in the flesh, those people who have taken you places in your mind or given you some precious insight.
On the way home, you carry your precious haul on your lap. You can’t wait to open the package, smell the books, cover them as though you were putting a blanket on a sleeping beloved, organize them on your shelves, and start reading.
I went to three of these last year.
***
This year, for some personal reason, I missed the fair.
I was despondent for days, so I came up with numerous reasons to snap out of the sad spell.
Reasons like, if I had gone, I would have felt tired and dizzy, and then my weekend would have slipped.
If I had gone, I would not have been able to stick to the budget I had set for myself. There were other bills to pay and certainly, shopping for books is a luxury – a want rather than a need.
Seeing all those published writers would have also reminded me that I still want to do more with my life and need to work harder. Pressure!
More books, when there are plenty that I have started but not yet finished, and when there are purchases from previous shopping trips that I have not even actually begun reading yet? A friend once chided me for not even having gone past the foreword of a book I had said I’d long wanted to possess. Certainly, visiting the fair would have added to all that unfinished business.
Also, I’m running out of shelf space. The books would sit idly, and accumulate dust. I get really bad allergies from dust. And did I not say I wanted to be a minimalist?
Finally, I don’t really have time to catch up on my reading. Maybe when I’m older. Maybe when I retire. Maybe when there is less pressure to earn a living.
***
Who am I kidding? It’s all sour grapes. These arguments are ridiculous, if not downright wrong.
Going to the fair and the sight of so many people would have tired me out — but I could always rest. I could even have dozed off on the ride home. It’s a weekend acivity I should not have missed for the world.
I would have been able to stick to my budget, and even if I failed, I could always take on extra writing, editing, or translating gigs to fill the gap. It’s basic economics: when resources are limited, scrimp on other things to give way to what is more important.
I would have basked in the presence of other writers and would have been inspired to write just a bit more, just a bit more often, and a lot better. I would have strengthened my resolve to set aside regular reading and writing time, no matter the material demands of life.
