There is a kind of sorrow in being a book lover. Every now and then, you are reminded of the fact that you will never be able to read all the good books in the world.

In trying to get better ideas of how to flesh out a fantasy world, I impulsively borrowed a few copies of my favourite books from the library (my own copies are in my hometown) and reread them. Specifically, I reread Tamora Piere’s Wild Magic, book one of The Immortals series set in Tortall, a fictional universe that I have spent countless hours in (both in the books and in the fan fiction).

It is such a thrilling read still, after all these years. Reading it with more of a writer’s lens this time, it was fascinating to notice things that I didn’t really think about before: how the characters were introduced, how information about the universe itself was explained in a non-intrusive and realistic way, how tightly the plot was weaved together, and how the little moments can endear you to the characters and bring them to life.

It was so much fun that I want to reread all the 18+ books set in this universe. I also want to reread John Scalzi, my favourite sci-fi author. I want to reread all the Harry Potter books. I want to revisit all the places that have inspired me and try to examine them from a writer’s eyes, and learn how to write like them, how to build worlds and bring people on adventures that change how they see the world.

I probably should, with at least a few of them. But what about the countless other good books out there? What about the good books that are yet to be published? What about all the unread books on my shelf? (What about real life?)

I despair sometimes.

But the rest of the time, I relish the simple joy that words on a page can bring. Books have made me laugh and cry, made me realise that I am not alone in feeling a certain way, and gave me both answers and questions to things I didn’t know exist.

I love, love books.

I had a couple of very different experiences in buying books recently, and it was interesting to me how I enjoyed both processes, despite their differences.

While in San Francisco, I stumbled into City Lights Bookstore, and spent two glorious hours browsing through and soaking in the atmosphere. The store itself has quite the character. Unlike bookstore chains that are more common in Singapore, this bookstore has a slightly haphazard layout instead of neat grids of shelves. On top of the shelves or entrances, funky quotes and random posters decorated them, all showing love for the written word and freedom of thought.

(Near the bookstore entrance. Aye to that quote!)

 

It has a basement connected by creaky stairs. Book categories go beyond the typical to include names like ‘class war’, ‘muckracking’ and ‘food lore’.

(A very inviting basement.)

 

At a room near the back on the ground floor, there was a table and a few chairs in a corner. When I was there, three people were seated there, and it sounded like a writer and an agent were pitching a book (City Lights is also a publishing house). I flipped open a random book to pretend to read and eavesdropped. They were talking about a memoir; the subject is gay and they talked excitedly about how the person changes over the course of the book. I stood there with my face buried in an open book, heart beating wildly at stumbling across a discussion like this — as an aspiring writer, this is like catching a glimpse of the backstage of the publishing process. I dream of having a similar conversation someday with a publisher, and hope that he or she would be as excited with the book I write.

I love that charming little bookstore, and consider it a highlight of my first trip to San Francisco.

Barely weeks later, I went to the Popular BookFest (an annual large-scale book exhibition by one of the biggest bookstore chains in Singapore). It’s an annual ritual for me, and I have always ended up with a giant stack of books. I almost didn’t go this year because I have a ton of unread books, but it feels wrong to miss it.

It was held across multiple halls in a convention centre, and there were hordes of families that make even the giant halls look cramped. Books aside, it has huge stationery, gadgets and even household items sections — things like rice cookers, vacuum cleaners, etc. When I was growing up the chain was more focused on books and stationery, but I assume their thinking was that, since they already have families coming regularly for books and stationery, why not sell the household items to the parents who are paying anyway?

As I waited in the snaking queue with arms that were cramping badly — I did not get a basket in the hope that I would not buy too many, but clearly I was not thinking very straight as I get excited over the great deals I saw — I mused on how much of a contrast this experience was to the City Lights bookstore experience.

This was a giant, highly commercialised book fair where a large proportion of customers likely do not like books just for reading’s sake (despite the queue, I hardly see anyone who bought a lot of actual books like me. Most of them had baskets full of assessment books or stationeries or cookbooks). The halls were lit by glaring fluorescent lights, manned by an army of part-time cashiers and ushers, and salespeople peddling things from juicers to TV screens. It was like a hypermarket with a large book section. It also took me one full hour to make payment, despite having around 150 cashier counters open — the line was that long.

There was none of the charm that City Lights Bookstore had. But when I examined the stack of books in my arms, all of them under SGD10, I was very happy. These were not books that I would have sought out, and it was only because they were in the bargain bin did I pick them up. In other words, these were spontaneous finds that fall outside of my usual picks, and hopefully they will bring me to new places that I have not thought of.

I guess that’s what books are to me — gateways to new, fantastical places; be that a fantasy land, a time long past, or a mind completely different from my own. I often feel like I travel much further with books than on actual planes. Books are magical that way.