Dear paperbacks,
We go back a long way, you and I.
I can’t remember a time you weren’t part of my life.
No matter where I’ve lived, you’ve been there. In my childhood bedrooms, where you were displayed proudly on bowing shelves, with the inevitable overflow packed into a wooden trunk my parents picked up in an antique shop.
You’ve always been close to hand. Precarious piles balanced on bedside tables or messy bedroom floors. Some of you even survived my Mari Kondo decluttering years, a time when not much else deemed worthy of ‘sparking joy’ - but you did.
The assortment of you may have changed over the years, with my collection evolving and shifting with careers, tastes or available shelf space, but you’ve never disappeared entirely. A home would not feel like home without at least a few of you nearby, winking at me from the corner of my eye.
We’ve been on many outings together.
I’ve learnt the hard way never to leave home without a book. I never resent carrying you but rather find the weight in my tote bag comforting. Offering a constant sense of grounding when the outside world threatens to overwhelm me with the cloying scent of shopping centres or raucous supermarket music.
I’d even be willing to suffer the weight of a hardback to shield me from the unimaginative reality of the modern world.
One I don’t remember agreeing to live in.
We’ve gotten through some challenging times, including the student years where you lay forgotten, replaced by sturdy textbooks. We even survived that brief fling I had with a kindle, a device so distasteful that it almost made me give up on reading altogether.
I cherish the beginning of our courtship period. The timeless ritual of welcoming a new paperback into my life. I’ve dallied with many of you temporarily bringing home plastic-covered editions from my local library.
And when I want a little more time with one of you, where our relationship isn’t restricted by stamped dates, I will venture into my local charity shops.
I don’t remember learning the art of second-hand book shopping. It’s something I seem to have picked up via osmosis, having spent endless hours in these venues since childhood.
After scanning the clothing and bric-a-brac, it doesn’t take me long to gravitate towards the bookshelves. Here, I squat and duck. Rummage and stroke. Flick through pages, inhaling that scent of childhood, the aroma of homecoming.
I murmur titles under my breath, scan sentences and closely inspect blurbs.
Finally, I proudly carry my chosen treasures to the till, always utterly delighted that I can gather an armful of you for the cost of one spine-tight edition from Waterstones.
You, paperbacks, offer something that we are desperately craving in the digital landscape.
Consistency.
No matter how many times I pluck one of you from my shelves, your story will unfold the same way. Your cover may change over time, perhaps the odd comma will move, or a new forward included, but the narrative will remain constant, even over hundreds of years.
Offering everyday time travel whenever we desire it.
Books don’t mould and shift with algorithms. They offer solidity in the ephemeral mess that we’ve made of society.
You, paperbacks, are something I can trust.
It is not that I am against your digitised cousins. I respect that they hold their own spaces. The backlight of an e-reader offers a gentle form of escapism for new parents on night feeds. The spoken narrative of audiobooks makes stories accessible to those who cannot read words for themselves. And this is unquestionably wonderful.
But for me, paperbacks, you are reading.
The reassuring weight between my thumb and index finger and the gentle sigh of turning pages. The wriggle of black ink on pages that bleed from pure white to golden yellow. The fact that I can take you anywhere, accessing stories without the requirement for headphones, chargers or, worst of all, Wi-Fi.
You offer my eyes respite from the devastating daily demand of screens. You don’t pose any other distractions, nor do you require me to complete more than one thing at once.
You give me permission to simply read.
One word after the other.
I can never thank you enough for this gift.
From your beloved,
Molly xx
Oh hello fellow paperback lover. You can now add a new thrifted book to my library, or buy me a coffee (the perfect companion to a book, I’m sure you’d agree) if you happened to enjoy my words today…💚
About the author
Hello, I’m Molly, a writer, YouTuber and almost author, living in a Tiny Home in the Scottish Highlands. I’ve built this publication to empower readers to carve out their own version of a slow life. Find out more about this publication HERE.
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