Someday.

I hate awkward books. Books in awkward proportions. When they're too fat for their width, or too flimsy for their height, they sit awkwardly in your elbow as though they'd rather not be there. Books with terrible pages. They smell fake and rubbery, and threaten to tear like tissue paper. The thin paper make uncomfortable sounds as your fingertips brush it, and the words are distracted by the transparency through to the words on the next page. Glue seeps from the binding onto the pages with a strange stretchiness. The whole book feels wrong, more like an unbalanced brick.

I'm going to write a book, and it's going to be perfect. Its going to be just thick enough to hold by the spine in one hand, and cradle perfectly in a arm. The pages will be thick enough to hold their own story with promise, without being cardstock-ish, the edges of which will line up perfectly, and when you run your fingers along them, there will be no squeaks, but a sound like whispers, like the book is already speaking too you. It'll smell like libraries and mystery, and readers will check to see if anyone's watching before pressing their noses between pages to the binding, to smell it, and I'll be in love with it.

As much as I love OrganizedChaos here, I wish it could be tangible. Someday.