I have a confession: Up until three years ago, I wasn’t much of a reader. If someone asked me what I was reading, I’d say I’m “too busy writing.” The feeling of shame that washed over me every time I spewed out that garbage cop-out was the inspiration to get the Kindle Paperwhite. And let me tell you: my life has changed.
People will tell you e-readers (or worse, tablets!) are low-brow ways of consuming literature—you can’t feel the texture of each page, the smell of ink, or the weight of the book in your backpack. Reading in that way is a holistic experience. But it was those very senses that were distracting me from the actual reading part altogether. Three years after its initial release, my Paperwhite continues to let me focus on what really matters—the story, and not whether or not my fluorescent bedside lamp is disturbing my sleeping husband.
With a quick Tinder-like swipe—nay, a gentle tap—I move on to the next page, making me feel like I’m zooming through scenes at a rate that satisfies my curiosity. There is nothing worse than a break in thought momentum because two pages got stuck together. I can read in a pitch-black room or a bright and sunny beach. The crisp 300 pixel screen adjusts itself to your environment so perfectly that if I forget my anti-glare reading glasses, I can still comfortably stare at that screen-like page, or page-like screen, for hours on end. I charge my phone and laptop daily, so it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that I need to charge my Paperwhite around once a month. Reading the Paperwhite in a waiting room has become a far more productive use of my time than fielding story pitches from my well-meaning dad.
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In my humble apartment, there’s only so much bookcase space my walls can accommodate. As I become more voracious of a reader, the Paperwhite’s library that holds over 1,000 books has finally allowed me to join the human race and read a damn book—or 52 a year.
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