These days, I reduce, reuse and recycle books.
I reduce by avoiding Amazon.com. If I can’t find a book I want at a local independently-owned bookstore, I think twice about the purchase.
I reuse by giving away autographed books by local authors as auction items or door prizes at fundraisers. I borrow and return books in good shape to The Little Free Library in Pine Level, the Selma Public Library, the Harrison Center for Active Aging in Selma, and HealthQuest Fitness Center in Smithfield.
I recycle by sharing books with others in the book bucket at church.
But I have a confession to make. On occasion, I rip up paperback fiction, page by page, as I read and soak in the bathtub.
These are dog-eared paperbacks bought for 25 cents at yard sales.
I rationalize the books are going to get wet anyway. And no one is going to miss the millionth copy of a book by an author with a monopoly on an entire shelf in Books-a-Million in Goldsboro. You know, branded names who dominate endcaps, have promotional tent cards on Joe Muggs tables, and make the New York Times bestseller list before a single new volume is on the shelf. In a three-second glance at cover design, title, name, it’s an impulse buy. The author is cents-on-the-dollar richer, a million times over. The rest feeds the corporate machine of agents, publishers, marketers. The story is just another harpoon dragged along with the whale. The “buy” is all. By ripping up yardsale paperbacks, I’m not destroying a work of art – it’s just paper and color – the equivalent of a “paint and sip” painting.
Or so I rationalize. My latest bathtub book is by a male romance writer who bristles at the label. He insists he’s a fiction writer. No matter. He is creeping up into the Barbara Cartland (1 billion), Danielle Steel (800 million) and Nora Roberts (400 million) sales club with his 105 million books sold. The book is about a widow and her dog. I’m a remarried widow. I have a dog. That’s why I picked it up. But this widow exhibits none of the crazy tornado family rollercoaster behavior I went through 18 years ago. The auto mechanic friend who loves her, the crazy rich guy who tries to woo her – even the loyal dog – are all cardboard stick characters, and the plot is a half-hearted “stranger comes to town.” A typical online review is “wasn’t a huge fan of this one, but I am looking forward to his next novel.” Huh? But I paid a quarter for this one! I know I will forget this paperback as soon as I drain the tub and discard the last page.
I admit my compulsion in ripping up paperback fiction is rooted in jealousy. “I can write better than this,” I think. But then, I haven’t. And which one of us is in a little tub in Pine Level, and which of us owns a mansion built to his specifications lakeside with who knows how many bathrooms with soaking tubs?
Oh well. This prolific male romance writer is cranking out two more books at this moment. He has the opportunity to make many more sales. Women in soaking tubs have made him so. His books pop forward on chain bookstore shelves like store brand tomato sauce cans neatly stacked at Town Market. I put one in my cart this week, and next week, there will be another.