There is something about owning a physical book, holding it in your hands, feeling the paper in between your fingerers while turning the pages and experiencing the journey of a tale on real paper, not on a paper white screen or illuminated retina display.
I began to play with my niece's Kindle every time she came over. I snuck peeks over strangers' shoulders on the subway and the bus. The text looked good; the portability handy. A horrible thought washed over me: I wanted one myself.
I thought long and hard after my first semester in Emerson's graduate Publishing program. My classes were interesting and my professors were incredibly experienced, but there was a hint of negativity in each article and newsletter that could not be denied.
I started noticing treasures within the treasures -- little bits of random ephemera left inside books, often untouched for decades. I found family photos, old advertisements, letters and postcards, even some crumbs of food.