It Takes So Little To Make Me Happy

I read the first book in Jeff Strand’s Andrew Mayhem series this weekend. Laugh, cringe, laugh, cringe, laugh some more, cringe some more. In other words, lots of fun. As soon as I finished, I wanted more, so I popped over to Amazon to buy #2 and #3 in the series. And as soon as Download Complete appeared on my Kindle, I’m like, What is the hell is wrong with you? Just how many ebooks do you need in the queue? Have you no self-control whatsoever?

Shees.

So then, this morning I got an email from Lawrence Block informing me that all his Open Road ebooks are on sale for today only. One day? Oh crap. So of course I had to pop right over to Amazon. Three minutes later, seven titles are off my wish list and loaded on my Kindle.

I am such a slut.

Greedy Gus.

Book whore.

But wait just a minute. For less than the cost of dinner and a movie, I have nine new books to read. Unlike dinner and a movie which will be over and done with in about four hours and mostly forgotten within a day or two (Unless the movies were either Seven or Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace, both of which I bitched about for weeks and can still get riled up about years later for offending me so greatly with such stupid plots).

Here’s the thing about books, especially genre fiction. The vast majority are temporary entertainment. I can enjoy a few hours lost in somebody else’s world and maybe learn a thing or two along the way. There are a few that stick. A few that matter for whatever reason. I have some books, now tattered and soft, the spines a mass of crinkles and broken paper, because I’ve read them over and over. Those books offer more than pleasure or information. They speak to me. They feel like old friends and we have a connection.

Since I was old enough to speak, I’ve been a story addict. I’ve had lots of interests in my life and a few passions and one or two obsessions (or to hear the old man tell it, “Your OCD acting up again?”) Those come and go. Except for stories. My passion, even my obsession for stories has never died.

Give me a book and a few hours of quiet and I am happy. Tell me a story and I am happy. I’m convinced that if a tornado roared through the neighborhood and flattened my house and swept away all I own, the only possessions I would truly miss would be my books. Even then I wouldn’t be too depressed because even if the books are gone, the stories remain and I can find them again.

They say money can’t buy happiness. Oh yeah? Well $25 just added another page and a half to my Kindle home page. That makes me very happy.

 

 

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9 responses

  1. Lawrence Block suckers me in every single time. You must read A Week As Andrea Benstock. Glorious!

  2. Are you saying, JUST one more…? Oh hell, why not?

  3. Got it. I need to make a new category on my Kindle just for LB books. Heh.

  4. Kindles feel loved when they have more books on them than the owner could ever read in a lifetime. You’ve done the right thing.

  5. If I ever run out of Kindle books, the apocalypse will commence. Thus, I am saving mankind. You’re welcome.

  6. I almost think my Nook should feel heavy, it’s so full of books. I am also guilty of shopping more than I read. It’s what book lovers do.

  7. Hey, Margaret, let’s pitch a new show to A&E: Virtual Hoarders.

  8. My husband has such a man-crush on Lawrence Block. He keeps grabbing the kindle and making off with it. I have to wait to read the books.

  9. You are far more indulgent than I, Julia. I keep a stun gun on my desk to keep everyone away from my Kindle. It’s so much fun to say to my kids (especially the one who raids my bookshelves and then NEVER returns my books!), “Gosh, dear, it’s such a great book and I’d love to let you read it, but you don’t have a Kindle. Neener neener.”

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