Too Many Books…and Okay With It
I have too many books, and I’ve grown to accept that I always will. When I first started reading, I always finished books that I bought or borrowed before buying another one. This used to be an unspoken rule of mine. It just felt like the smart thing to do. But somehow I took a wrong turn. It happened after college when I was living on my own. Slowly, I started buying books that I intended to read, brought them home, stuck them on a shelf somewhere, and never read them. It always felt important to buy them, for some reason. This led to inevitable problems, of course. If you are a reader, you probably are nodding your head right about now. People call this an addiction but I don’t think it is. And no, it’s not hoarding, not in the sense that that word is tossed around these days.
That’s the topic I’m tackling this week at the SleuthSayers mystery blog. I hope you’ll stop by to check it out. The article is entitled:
Here is part of what I’m saying:
In other words, books were borrowed or purchased in order to be read now. They never came home and stayed untouched. This was the greatest of all rules. I read what I bought, and I read what I borrowed.
There was no such thing as unread books.
I continued this practice well into college and slightly beyond. Then, for some reason, the Neat-Tidy system broke down. Books entered my apartment and stayed unread for a good long time. They stacked up on the bookshelf. Or in piles near the couch. On my bedside table. On my desk. I rationalized their acquisition because I knew I would get to them in time, because I always had.
Soon books entered the dwelling unread and stayed that way for years. For some reason, I was okay with this. I did what anyone in my position would do: I blamed Otto Penzler.
When I was fresh out of college, somehow I learned of the Crime Collector’s Club (CCC) that Penzler operated out of his Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, the location with the charming spiral staircase. You signed up, you sent him money, and every month he mailed you a new hardcover book.
These were special. They were autographed by the author. I had never heard of such a thing. It was the most marvelous thing ever. When I finally got around to reading the book, it didn’t matter that there were no pictures; I could ogle the writer’s handwriting on the title page as I read. Wow.
I know people who love books but who are not authors themselves. They suffer from the same affliction but it’s worse when you’re a writer. Many of your friends are writers, and you feel compelled to read or otherwise support their work. So you are always bringing home just-published books. Some you read, some you don’t. It’s a given.
I will warn you that this article is not prescriptive. I don’t know how to stop this behavior other than to run out of money or space. In fact, I think I’ve pretty much made my peace with the situation. I share my home with my wife, my dog, and a whole lot of books. Every now and then, some of the books are scrutinized and sent off to live somewhere else. I enjoy that process too. When I pass a book along to someone else, or I donate it, I feel magnanimous. Sometimes there’s a story that gets passed along in the transfer too.
I hope you’ll check out the article. It was a fun one to write and think about.
That said, I usually try to mention one of my books when I post here. Preferably, one that fits the topic I’m writing about. My bookshop mystery fits the bill today. Sure, it’s about murder, but my detective is a bookseller who supports herself on used books no one wants.
I hope you’ll check out my cozy mystery, Murder on Book Row, (affiliate link) which has a great new cover.
Click to see buying options.
