Today, I went to a bookstore, and it reminded me so much of my love for books. It was the smell of papers, the colorfulness of stationery, the organizing of each section. There are books for everyone and everything under the sun. I feel so welcome and inclusive.
Ahem. Since I’m a basic b*tch who mostly reads basic mainstream content, I can recognize so many books and authors at the store. It’s like an alumni meetup. I knew them all. They were my long good friends all along. I was excited and joyfully saying hi and touching each one. I feel the softness of the papers and the smoothness of the covers. Some of them weigh so little, and it feels so amazing.
Backtrack story, I haven’t bought a physical book for years. Since the time my parents divorced, they sold the house, my childhood home, and my books then became orphaned. I was living abroad at that time, and this event forced me to take action on all of my possessions: my clothes, old gifts, accessories, and books. I hadn’t touched any of it for months, but the thought of giving it away was just so painful; maybe I would need it someday.
But at that time, I no longer had access to that ‘free storage’ of childhood home. My mom kept most of my belongings and moved into her new, more modest-sized flat. I visited her and went over everything. I thought to myself, if I could live without it for a year, maybe I could live without it for my life forward. I took a deep breath, put every book into a big box, and donated it to my friend’s coffee shop. Every single one. I went to that coffee shop often; I can see my (no longer) books there, being read by others, serving others in many different ways. I feel much happier and lighter.
I possibly read the most among my family and circle of friends. Reading is not a big culture where I come from. It was even before all the social media and video entertainment came. I wasn’t sure what my friends’ sort of pastime was. But I took it so proudly, that I was someone who read.
Since age 10, I joined this journalism group in my hometown youth center. We gathered around every Sunday. We had a small local newspaper and we visited people from different backgrounds from time to time to interview and write about them.
I went out talking and taking pictures of other people’s lives and wrote with my heart. Every Sunday, I came back to the group and presented my “homework”. I was so curious to learn from others. We visited a disability group of youths who were selling their paintings for a living. We talked to experienced photographers. We took pictures of different places, whatever interested us. It was long before any social media, clickbait, and tactics on how to get others’ attention (Those are something I need to learn about much later in life). But back then, with the heart of a 10-year-old girl, the experience itself was overwhelming and much richer than anything else.
I remember vividly that my very first income in my life was actually from writing. I wrote a short article where I interviewed other peers about their dreams.
What were your dreams? Everyone had a dream, and they were all beautiful.
Something as simple as that. The article got selected by the youth national radio. I earned my very first money; it was 50,000 VND (less than $3 now). My parents assisted me to the post office to receive the cash and also make sure I wasn’t being scammed. Earning money always feels amazing, especially when it comes from something we love.
The other elders in my family, when they heard of my teen journalist group, they kept telling me, ‘Wow, you’re a literature girl. You’re diligent, but you ain’t smart’ (rude!). One thing about my town, or I dare assume my country back then, was that whoever was good at literature wasn’t good at math or science. And if you aren’t good at math, you ain’t smart. Also, my brother was a real math genius. I resented it so much. There was so much competition and unfairness going on between me and my brother. I thought to myself, that wasn’t true. I was smart. I would prove them wrong. By doing so, I abandoned my love for writing and focused my main energy on math. Yes, I succeeded. I was good at math after all, and I loved it after all. But life went on, and I lost my love for writing. I was so scared to be labeled as not being smart.
Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash Luckily enough, I didn’t abandon my habit to read. I kept the little light burning while juggling other responsibilities and fulfilling other images I’d like others to think of me.
Moving forward, after donating my books, I decided to go all in digital. Ever since, my one and only source of books has been my Kindle. There is so much I can praise about Kindle. I thought it’s better for the environment, one less branch of tree needed to be cut. It’s better for a nomadic person like me, who has no “free-storage” childhood home. I could buy any book from any author in any country from Kindle. A lot of books that I read weren’t released in my current city or available at all. For example, when I was in Vietnam, my country, it was such a hassle to get English literature. It’s normally more expensive with all the shipping costs too. Also, not to mention the literature censorship of countries like mine was very strict. So for Kindle, there is basically no barrier for me to reach any book that I wish.
But today when I was back in the bookstore, all the good memories returned. All the books that I’ve read for the last couple of months, which I haven’t bought and seen in person, were now, just here. I can physically hold, reread a few pages to remind me of the times I’ve been through.
Earlier this week, I received a very bad news. My whole body was paralyzed and affected by the news. I could barely do anything. I panicked so much that all I could do was settle down with my Kindle. I started a new book, ‘When Things Fall Apart.’ In the very introduction, the author said that she took a sabbatical year, during which she did nothing but relax. She cooked and ate. She went on hikes and read and wrote. I loved the sound of it so much that I can see myself and my life in it. The love for a simple, quiet life with a book and me, me and my thoughts, came up all at once. And today, when I was inside the bookstore, I once again remembered how much books mean to me. How much they have held me through tough times, good times, and taught me the most valuable lessons in life.
I look like a very bubbly and extroverted person. But I feel lonely a lot. As if no one in this world, or even in my circle of friends, understands me or is kind to me. I try to be cheerful to cover up my insecurity. But when I’m with a book, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s as if I have so many good friends in this world, in front of my hands. And they are all genius and smart and kind. Every single one of them taught something to me or reminded me of something valuable that I’ve cherished. Every single one of them wants me to be happy and successful. And once again, I remember how much they meant to me. I normally don’t know how to end an article. I don’t have anything to sum up. I just wish, if you’re reading this, whatever love that you had, I hope the light goes on. Even though it might seem like a little torch on a windy day. Keep it going on. Because one day, it will come back and you’ll be glad to hold on to it a little longer. My best friends and I love you.