I have a very crafty circle of friends and acquaintances. They conceptualize and visualize and bring their ideas to life to exist in a form that can be immediately appreciated by others. I am, admittedly, somewhat jealous of them - of anyone, really - who paints, throws pots, knits, crochets, sculpts, resurrects . . . makes.
My daughter's elementary school recently held a craft fair that I desperately wanted to be a part of. However, books are not crafty (and none of mine are age-appropriate anyway). Certainly books take skill and often an inordinate amount of time to see through from concept to finished product, but there is something fundamentally different about books that separates them from other forms of craft. Whereas you can visually appreciate a painting or turn over a clay pot in your hands, touch the soft fibers of a knitted sweater or crocheted blanket, and instantly bond with that piece of art, the same cannot be said about a book. Books are meant to be savored in parts; their secrets slowly unraveled. That, of course, requires patience and free time. And while many people enjoy reading, you cannot cover up with a book when you're cold or wrap one around your neck (at least not comfortably). Books serve no purpose but to entertain, and the few hours of escape one gets from reading is not worth much to some.
I envy a particular friend who wears what she knits; her garments are striking. I suppose I could string my six books in a rather cumbersome necklace to advertise what I create, but then people would likely think me odder than they already do.