Every time I finish one of the Diana Gabaldon Outlander books, I take a moment to rejoice, and to read the Acknowledgements because they are full of fun thank yous such as this one, to her husband, for “his marginal notes (e.g., “nipples again?”).” Then I order myself the next installment in the series for $4.99. I don’t know how many books there are still to come: eight? eight hundred? Unless there is a marked downturn in quality, I will read them all, just as I did with Game of Thrones, His Dark Materials, Harry Potter, Hunger Games, and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. These series appeal to something primal inside me: like video games, they offer a blend of simplicity and transcendence. Plus, at the end, resolution.
I feel guilty about shelling out $5 per fix, though, because 1) the e-books come from Amazon, and remember when I was going to boycott Amazon? hahahaha I am so good at having principles, and 2) Money! Spending money. And not on high-brow literature by serious and/or debut writers, either, but on an efficient pleasure delivery system. Here I am wearing clothes with holes in them and not going to the gym. How much sacrifice is too much? Which small indulgences are worth it? If it’s not that expensive and it makes me feel better, is that a good enough reason to press “buy”?
Especially because it’s fall. Season of cold winds and hot cider, of family and holidays and the guilty pleasures we lean on in order to get us through, like binge-watching network TV, or buying two coats at once at Nordstrom Rack, or mainlining a whole bag of candy corn. Maybe in the summertime, bolstered by long, sweet, sunshine-y days, I would like to start The Drums of Autumn as soon as I’m done with Voyager, but I wouldn’t need to. In the fall, though, I feel like Barney offered Duff beer: “Just hook it to my veins!“