Going Hunting

I love hunting.

Hunting for books, that is. I grew up in a small Midwestern town with a family tradition of pheasant, deer, duck, sometimes even gopher hunting. It's a familiar concept to me. It's not one, however, that I've ever understood.

At the ripe age of ten, I was required to help cut deer. Not only was the site of the dead deer hanging from the rafters of our garage, eyeballs wide and staring, skin and fur stripped from the bone, enough to scar a young child, but I was also forced to help cut the thing up. My dad would strip the muscle from the bone and bring it down to the basement; from there, my mom and whoever else they recruited for the tedious task, were responsible for cutting the fat off and running the meat through a grinder.

Let's just say, I'm now a vegetarian. And even though the idea of walking into our garage and seeing those many deer hanging is one I tend to avoid, I must admit I have appreciation for the art of it. After all, hunting can occur in different forms and, for me, it takes the shape of the book.

I could spend hours of every day just traveling from one book store to another in search of a great read. I enjoy big book stores like Barnes and Noble, but it doesn't contain the same thrill as a local shop where you never know what you're going to get. Local book stores can contain anything from antique classics to off the wall contemporaries; sometimes they have what you're looking for, but most often they don't. And when they don't, you sacrifice your personal desires and you explore. That exploration can lead you to a multitude of books you would have never imagined dreaming before. Through that search of the unknown, you land on the couch with this exploration in hand, unsure of what treasure you'll uncover, whether they'll be laughs or tears, or both. It's a thrill.

Hunting for books is different from hunting for animals in the action of it all. Books don't perk up their ears at the crack of a twig or the odd scent in the air; they don't turn and run at the sound of a gunshot. Instead, they reach out for you. They sit on the bookshelf and, if you listen closely, you can hear them calling out to you; they're begging to be read.

If you're anything like me, you'll listen to their demands. Sometimes, the result is rough and gamey, other times it's sweet and tender. But it's always a surprise.

Not to mention, skinning a book is nothing like skinning a deer. Forget the tangible, I'll take the blood and guts of my imagination.