I have discovered I have an obsession with books. Okay, no surprise there, especially for my family, but it is becoming an issue of space. In the past several years, I have donated/sold/otherwise disposed of thousands of books and yet my shelves are still overflowing. My to-be-read piles continue to pile and there is no way I will ever read them all, not even in two lifetimes.
And yet…I continue to get more. I’ll see a title by an author I love and I have to have it. Or an intriguing blurb by a new (to me) author and it goes on my list. Working in a bookstore only feeds my obsession. And please, don’t point out that I can go to a library and borrow a book – doesn’t work for me (and I have a Master’s in Library Science!). I have to *have* the book. It has to be mine. Mine to read, to review if I like it, to get rid of if I don’t. Mine to savor and put on a shelf, or share with someone else.
I don’t understand why I am like this. And it really is just books. I have other collections and interests, but they don’t pull at me like books do. Books, whether paperback, hardback, or in e-format, are doorways to other worlds. Within their covers, people have problems that are solved and adventures in exotic places. They take me away from my troubles and let me live in a fantasy world for as long as I am in them.
And maybe that’s the draw.
Whatever the reason, I know I’m not going to quit getting books, whether for myself or others. And I know I’m not going to stop reading. After all, where else can you find such enjoyment for such a small amount of money?