Bye Bye Bookstores

As I recently reopened the file containing THE definitive Millennial novel (known to many of you as Vignettes, or simply Jane), which I am co-authoring with one of my best friends, I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of our third writing partner, Borders bookstore. As disillusioned post-grads, my writing partner and I would steal away from our parents’ homes and head over to our writer’s studio at least, twice, maybe three times a week.

There, our bank-tellering addled minds were soothed by the gentle hum of World Music, light jazz and the occasional Seal album. We would warm our bellies with Snickerdoodle cookies and Caramel Apple Cider (Starbucks had nothing on ‘em). Then, we would write and talk and write and talk and write. For hours. Often, we would take breaks to peruse the books and draw some inspiration. And even though we always left well after closing time, the employees at the Borders store in Rockford never kicked us out.

I can’t say the same for Barnes and Noble. The handful of times we attempted to work there, the pastries were cold, drinks overpriced, coffeehouse versions of pop classics made my ears bleed and the staff couldn’t wait to get us out the door. “B&N” just lacked that certain everything.

Tragically, after a prolonged bankruptcy process, one of those booksellers disappeared off the face of the earth last week. To my dismay it was Borders, the retailer that placed all its faith in paper books, instead of the digital kind.

Barnes and Noble, on the other hand, stays afloat by pushing the Nook, an electronic device that makes it possible to read with minimal effort while lounging on the beach, standing on the train and laying in bed. That’s all well and good, but as a wannabe author, I have always dreamt of seeing my name printed on a book cover. And of standing at a lectern, book in palm, reading to an audience, slowly turning the pages to build up anticipation. From early childhood, I was a book nerd. The more engaged I become with a text, the more wrapped up I get in the character, the more greedily I turn the pages. I’d always wished the same from my readers, that they would be able to devour my pages.

But those days are gone. I recently read Super Sad True Love Story, a dystopian novel (you know I love those) about the downfall of hyper-consumer civilization. In Gary Shteyngart’s satirical farce, set in the not-so-far in the future, books are referred to as artifacts. The premise is that the digital generation has no need for them. They communicate purely through devices and screens (called apparati), which severely hinders their ability to interact face-to-face, demolishes attention spans and causes a plague of illiteracy. Shteyngart’s anti-hero is the only poor sap who still believes in the power of words, the last reader left in the world.

The fall of the bookstore signifies loss to me. Recently, I spent a leisurely day at the beach with some friends. I had a novel with me, which bore a scandalous name: Eating Chinese Food Naked. (The title was far more tililating than the book was.) Someone asked me how I heard of it. I found her question confusing. Reviews and recommendations are always appreciated but, what I enjoy is the process of finding a book, wandering the aisles in search of that one book that speaks to me.
Sure, it’s nifty to have entire texts at your disposal with just the mere push of a button. But I, for one, will miss the promise of exploration, discovery and fantasy dead-tree books carried with them.

Read This, Not That

I am so thankful for Winter Break, as it affords me the opportunity to wrap myself up in a blanket, chug a mug of hot chocolate and just read.

If you didn't know, books are like magic to me. Every Sunday when I was a kid, I'd force a parent to drive me over to the library, so I could check out the maximum number of books allowed on my card (which I believe was 40) and wade through a pool of books in the car.

I just finished reading two books of completely different genres and I'm here to urge you to crack one open and to warn you to avoid muddling through the other.



First, the bad. My mother, bless her intentions, brought home several tomes of short stories to inspire me (since I had been developing my own writing with my friend Sha'Donna). One of these books was James Franco's Palo Alto, so named for his hometown. Readers, should some curiosity move you to pick this off the shelf, put it back. Up until now, I have followed his career with admiration. Loved him in Freaks and Geeks, loved him as Spiderman's sidekick and absolutely loved him in Milk. When I heard that he had enrolled in something like four different grad programs, including an MFA in creative writing, and that he had published his work, I was intrigued. I shouldn't have been. His stories are unreadable. The characters are undeveloped and his plots meander. Clearly, his writing ability was a secondary consideration in his book deal. I guess if I was a famous actor, it would be pretty easy for me to get a half-baked book published too.



On the other hand, I recommend all of you try to get your hands on Rebecca Skloot's the Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, a decade-long investigation into the background of Henrietta Lacks, the women whose cancer cells became the infamous HeLa cells, supposedly one of the most important medical discoveries of the 20th Century. HeLa cells have been used in polio vaccines and cancer medications, and have spurred numerous inventions over the years. Tragically, this groundbreaking discovery was ill-gotten, as her doctors collected a sample without her knowledge or consent. It was 1950s Baltimore and doctors in the "colored" wing didn't feel think her family needed to know that her cells were being being shipped around the world, traveling through space and being used for genetic engineering. Today, bio-medical companies make millions of dollars of profit off of her DNA. And her family has not seen a cent of it. In a sad twist of irony, her children, who cannot afford medical insurance, do not have enough money to pay for medications developed from the DNA they share with their mother. Immortal Life opened my eyes to issues of race relations and medical ethics I could never have conceived of. This is not a light read, or a feel-good book, but it is a mind-blower. And yes, there was a part that made me cry. I encourage anyone with an interest in medicine to check it out.