As a kid, I used to bring books out to the playground to read during recess while my classmates ran circles around me. As a teenager, I used to go to school exhausted after pulling all-nighters to read, and whenever I was bratty, my mom would get her revenge by hiding my half-finished books, a particularly cruel punishment for a dork with a bad attitude.
And as an adult, I spent hundreds of dollars to ship at least 75 pounds of hardcovers and paperbacks across the country when I moved from New York to Denver. I formed my voracious-reading habits in elementary school nearly 20 years ago, before ebooks were an option.
Holding a book in my hands, flipping through its pages and breathing in its musty scent, creasing the spine and leaving fingerprints on the glossy coverβthese details were all, to my mind, almost as enjoyable as the act of reading itself.
As a person who packed at least three hardcovers for every weekend trip , I knew that an e-reader would be the more practical choice for me, but even thinking about making the switch made me feel guilty, as if I were betraying a good friend. But then the pandemic closed library doors, cutting off my endless supply of books. At first I read books on a tablet I already owned.
The Kids version of the Kindle Paperwhite, which you can switch out of kids mode, has a great display, adjustable color temperature, even lighting, and waterproofing. Despite my lifelong love of physical books, the more I use my Kindle, the happier I am with it.
