They're re-releasing the effing Baby-Sitters Club as a series of e-books!
I'll admit, I have some mixed feelings on the topic of e-books. While I totally value diversity and respect that what floats your boat may not float mine, I am also a super judgmental purist. Furthermore, I worry that the prevalence of e-readers will make it more difficult to follow this solid advice:
You shouldn't have to search everywhere for a tiny Kobo to find out if your date is literate.
I also appreciate print books for their sheer aesthetics, even the ones I haven't read or don't like. Ask me about my collection of Charles Dickens books: never read them, don't think I'd like them, had to buy them so Carleton would give me an English degree...but they sure do look nice on my bookshelf. (Did you know that Dickens was paid a penny a word? I learned this in one of my undergrad classes and it gave me a bad case of the rage-hives. How does this encourage legitimate artistry in any way? Do you have any idea what this blog would look like if I was being paid a penny per word? It would pretty much be like "Chesterfield. Hammertoe. Asparagus." and it would never end.)
Other reasons I don't own an e-reader include the fact that I am kind of poor and like to read in the bathtub -- it takes a lot more time and a lot more rice to dry out an e-reader than a book. Plus I hate trees.
As those of you who once visited my apartment/rooted through my personal belongs might know, I already own roughly half of this series. Now that I live with my mom again, they're in a box in the basement. I have limited shelf space and frankly those multicoloured pastel spines don't look quite as nice on display as Dickens does. However, I cannot part with these relics. They are like the macaroni and cheese I remember from yesteryear but can no longer eat because gluten. They are delicious and simple and smell a little funky. I take one out every now and then and read it in one sitting. I revisit Diabetic Stacey, Condescending Dawn, and Useless Mallory. I question what sane parents would ever leave their three-month-old with a preteen. Simpler times, the 1980s.
The box-in-the-basement solution isn't necessarily a bad one because that's where all old toys go, and I imagine those books chillin' out down there with Pooh Bear and Buzz Lightyear et al. However, I feel sort of guilty sometimes because were I to move out again (as I pray I one day will), I would probably want to leave them here. Ninety-five Baby-Sitters Club books take up a lot of space. Valuable, embarrassing space.
So I think I might finally understand e-readers. It's where you keep electronic files of the shit you don't want your boyfriend to know you own.
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