Reading (and writing) with the senses (fka Sensual Reading)

(originally posted elsewhere, years ago, but since edited and updated)



I'm imagining myself sitting in a little dive just off the highway. It's one of those places in which you can smell the grease in the fries, and have to wring out your hamburger bun. It used to be an ice cream parlor. And though I rarely find myself at one of its corner tables anymore, it is still marked in memory as one of my favorite places to write.


As I sit at my kitchen table imagining, I remember the view from where I sat: old men discussing the weather, and its effect on their joints; the ladies in the back, spooning mashed potatos -- the kind with the dark, dark gravy -- and Superman ice cream.

I never brought my laptop to this little diner, prefering always the feel of pen against paper. In fact, as I write this now, I am ever mindful of not smearing my ink -- quite a task for a left-handed writer.
But there is method, as they say, in this madness. Writing is an experience of the senses. If the senses -- all of them -- are not involved, then you can only find half the story.


But perhaps I am old-fashoned.

I have in my posession an illustrated edition of Tennyson from 1885. It is well-worn. Okay -- it's in tatters. It is unlikely it would fetch much on Ebay. But it is the pride of my collection.

Reading, you see, is also an experience for the senses.

My Tennyson has layers: a path to travel before reaching the contents. You first blow the dust off the cover: it's an image so old it's a cliché, but it is no less necessary. You lift the book to your nostrils. The musk of age travels to your brain, and the smell gives the words context. And, finally, you turn the first page.


There is a feeling elicited by a bound book that an eBook -- even as they become slimmer and more convenient -- will never touch.

Not that there is anything wrong with eBooks -- anything that gets more people reading can only be a boon to society.  And I'm not saying I don't have a weird sort of love affair with my kindle. Let's face it: it's handy to have around, and sometimes, the words are all you need.

And sometimes, the book, itself, is part of the experience.  I think of Elizabeth Kostova's "The Historian."  Much of the book takes place in libraries, with the main character poring over old diaries and papers and various bound histories. Is it an enjoyable read on the Kindle? Probably. But, to me, to read such a book in an electronic format is to lose some of that feeling of "there-ness."  


When I read "The Historian," I'm holding a thick volume, and smelling that scent that hides just beneath the cover. It is as if I, too, am sitting in that darkened room, reading the account of the main character, in the form in which she left it. I'm there with her, turning page after page, feeling the grain of the paper beneath my fingertips. Hearing the scratch of the page as I turn to the next.


That sound; the weight and smell; the edge of the paper, digging ever so slightly into the creases in my fingers: All of it, the book's way of making its presence known. 

Think of your closest friends -- not the people you know from chatrooms or internet forums; the people with whom you can enjoy the quiet moments. Is it their words that bring you comfort and joy? Or is it their presence? Is talking on the phone the same as walking together through a park?  The words may be the same -- but that sweet, blessed companionship can only come, at its fullest, when you are together.

The obituary for Print has been written more times than I can count. The book, we're told, is dead. It just doesn't know it yet. Book stores are allowing now-empty shelves to gather dust, as the owners head off to more certain pastures.  What a shame.

I love words. I could read words, sentences, stories all day. And for that, certainly, the Kindle, or my laptop, or even, occasionally, a recording will suffice. But for the best a story has to offer, in those quiet moments of reading and reflection, I'll take a the weighty presence of a hardcover every time.

You are not a beautiful snowflake...

This has been bugging me a lot lately -- probably because I so often find myself having to deal with it.  "It" is the issue of incompetence.  Now, before you start rolling your eyes and thinking I think I'm better than anyone else ("just the ones I'm better than," as a certain Captain would say), hear me out.  What I'm talking about here is willful incompetence.  Or, more passively, the simple lack of enough give-a-damn to do one's job correctly.

As much as we like to think of ourselves as wonderful and unique human beings (and we are), the cold truth is that, whether you're an actor, an astronaut, or even a fry cook, your identity -- and your reputation -- is tied up in the work you do.  If I suck at my job, my reputation suffers.  I'm not saying I don't make mistakes.  I'm saying that, when I do, it's a lot of ground to try to regain in the eyes of those who noticed.

To your parents and your girlfriend, you may be Timmy or Johnny or Bill.  To the rest of the people with whom you come into contact, though, you're just another idiot who can't make a latte.

Or, you could be "the very helpful person at (insert business here), who smiled and seemed to know what s/he was talking about/doing."

I experience a lot of this willful incompetence at my real job.  From third-party agencies who simply stopped trying decades ago to vendors who are simply unwilling to take the extra few seconds to do a job right the first time, it's easy to wonder when things in our industry started to go so wrong.  I'm not saying I'm a shining example of self-motivation by any standard, but compared to some of these individuals, I'm Henry freakin' Ford.

See, to me, having a job in this economy is enough motivation to try as hard as I can to do my job well.  That I'd someday like to get paid more for the work I do is motivation enough to push myself and try to excel.  I guess I have a hard time understanding the mental processes of somebody -- let alone entire companies of people -- who would happily stamp their name on third-rate crap and send it off to a client... not just once, but several times a week.

Are you not in the least concerned that, as both a client and a peer (as I also do similar work as part of my job), you've done nothing but reveal yourself to me as somebody with whom, had I the choice, I would never -- ever -- do business?  Are you not worried at all about your reputation in the industry that puts food on your table?

I've made mention before of what a big fan I am of trying to excel.  Mediocrity makes me angry, because it is almost always avoidable.  But sometimes, it's not even about excellence.  It would just be nice, sometimes, to know that people still have at least a little pride in their work.

By the way, as this is also a writing and publishing blog, this will all be tied in.  At some point this week, I'll be doing a post on self-publishing, and shopping publishers.  Keep this post in mind until then.