I was doomed from the start. When I was very young, I would steal the pennies out of the change that my dad dumped on his nightstand. One day, instead of pennies, I found a book. I knew that books were cool and fun. My mom and dad had each read The Pokey Little Puppy to me a bazillion times and it was still new and fresh with each reading.
However, this book was a little different. It was thick. It had lots of pages. The only picture in the whole book was on the cover: a big, bumpy, green-glowy egg. I even had to ask my dad what the title Alien meant. Of course I didn't understand everything I read, but it did manage to scare the living shit out of me. I was hooked.
I thirsted for more and made it clear to my parents that I needed to read more stuff like it. They pointed me in the direction of "Victor Appleton"'s third series of Tom Swift novels. These books really set my imagination afire. Still, I didn't much identify with Tom and the stories were engaging in a safe sort of way. I didn't exactly feel pandered to, but I did notice that no one died in horrible ways like Kane, Parker, Brett, Lambert, or Dallas. Still, for a while I could head straight to the children's section and find a new adventure on a regular basis. Eventually, the author or the publisher started to lose steam. I had to wait longer and longer until the next installment of brain fuel. Also, the cover art started to decline in quality until it looked like some sort of neutered Nagel. Very 80s. (After a little bit of surfing, I've learned that "the third Tom Swift series was a dismal failure" and that "the series was discontinued after just three years". Mystery solved.)
Finally, out of frustration, I wandered over to the grown-ups' Science Fiction section. Now, this was in a B. Dalton bookstore before the chain was transformed into a bad imitation of Crown. Bookshelves scraped the tall ceiling. The walls were covered in books. I was totally stumped. Row after row of flashy covers enticed me. Most of the shelves were higher than I could reach. I had no idea where to start. Right then an older gentleman with a bushy beard who stood not much taller than I was at the time sensed my befuddlement. We got to chatting and I admitted that I was just starting out. He smiled, pulled a book from the wall, and handed me Starship Troopers. God bless 'im.
So now I'm one of those folks who needs to buy another suitcase on a vacation because of all the books I've bought. It's nearly impossible for me to pass up the opportunity to crawl through a used book store. I've always got my eyes peeled for Harlan Ellison or C. M. Kornbluth Whenever I visit my parents, I need to stop by the local used book store. The owner, Ruth, doesn't bother much with keeping her shelves organized. No matter. It only serves to heighten the thrill of the hunt for me. She's got stacks of science fiction, older stuff from the Fifties to the Seventies, the kind of readable, non-collector stuff that can be hard to find in cleaner, more well organized shops. Still, the last time we were up there, my wife unearthed a nearly mint first edition of Michael Whelan's Works of Wonder. It doesn't matter that I've got about 10 years worth of reading already on my shelves at home. My thirst for books cannot be quenched.
Like I said, I was doomed from the start.
Pakeha