Am I Being Obsessive?
It’s no secret that I love books. Stacked and nestled against each other on shelves, they line an entire wall in one room of my house with only a single window peeking out from between the paperbacks and hardcovers. Rows of them seem to collectively tell the story of my own life; dozens of beatnik titles and university textbooks from my college years, poetry, philosophy and children’s titles that I still read with my own babes, and hundreds of paperback novels that I either studied for a class, devoured for my own entertainment or collected just because I loved the front covers.
There have been times when I’ve gone through my books and made tough-love choices about which ones I was willing to donate or sell, just to keep my house from being taken over by them. (I’ll admit that there are stacks that I’ve tucked away throughout the rooms as well, and I always keep at least one book in my car.) But selling them is never as satisfying as you might think; the money isn’t enough to buy a can of Pledge to dust the shelves. Donating them feels better, so that’s my first inclination when I purge the titles.
Although I don’t keep every book forever because of space, I’m guilty of having an ever-growing wish list of titles, and I don’t hold back when there’s a great book sale in my neighborhood. Even this morning, I happily grabbed a couple of books that were on my workplace’s “freebie” table.
One of the reasons I love books is because in them I find endless inspiration for new ideas. A well-written phrase, an illustration, a character–all of these can create a spark. They keep me, and the world, moving forward.
Your book-lover forever,