I had a doctors appointment this morning. I arrived on time and therefore had about an hour of reading time. Last night I packed the bag I’d be taking as I didn’t want to be late because I couldn’t decide which book to take. Every reader I know goes through the ‘Which book(s) should I take to the doctor/on vacation?’ thing. [This post was written prior to acquiring a Kindle a.k.a. The Greatest Invention of Modern Times]

So I read a bit while waiting for my turn and I was the only person with a book in a full waiting room. This never ceases to amaze me. You know you’re going somewhere you’ll have to wait…it just seems logical to take something to occupy your time. If I find myself somewhere without reading material of some sort (the Levenger catalogue, at least) I can only think about how stupid I am for forgetting something to read.

Counting on this, doctors’ offices provide periodicals spanning several decades, but more patients weren’t flipping through those than were. (Not that reading about incoming PM Thatcher’s plans isn’t riveting, you know.)

But what do non-readers think? I’m not suggesting non-readers don’t think–I’m just wondering what’s going on in there without something on which to focus. Maybe they’re pondering the mysteries of the universe. Perhaps they’re thinking the equivalent of a hanging cadence.

I’m not sure if it’s a good sign or bad that I can’t remember the last time I just sat without something to focus on, be it my computer, music or a book … or all three. Perhaps that says more about me than them.

This might be my medication talking, but journey with me now on my stream of consciousness, won’t you? Readers and non-readers are two separate groups, aren’t they? And crossing into the other territory is something I cannot fathom. I simply cannot put myself in the shoes of a non-reader. Probably any more so than they could imagine to be me.

It’s rather like the introvert/extrovert divide, I think.
So much of my life is governed by love of the printed word becoming a non-reader would require overhauling everything. My house would be minimalist in design to a degree of Zen, my bank account would be healthier, that’s for certain, but…what would I think about? What would I write about? What would be the point of getting up in the morning? How would I escape the world or find new ones…or make new friends and enemies without having to remember birthdays or do constant battle…learn about myself and other viewpoints?

Great, now I’m having some sort of existential crisis because I realise I get most of my information about the world and my place in it through books. I am completely dependent on them. Without them I have no place to start. Books complete me.

[Original Post date: 9 August, 2006]