It's no secret: I love books. I love them for where they take me, what they teach me, how they make me feel, how they mess with the way I think, how they make me a better writer. Even when I move beyond the content and message of a book, I'm still in love. There's something about the physical nature of a book. Feeling it in my hands. Noticing the exact placement of where my bookmark sits in the text - a true marker of time and place. Taking in the scent of the pages, especially in old editions. And when I'm done reading, seeing it displayed on a shelf, like a prize. How one spine leans up against another. Some tall, some short, like the attempted size order line in Mrs. Silverman's class, my first grade teacher. All kinds of shapes and sizes, colors and opinions, just like people. They're my baseball cards if I were a kid. My acorns if I were a squirrel. My trophies if I were Serena Williams. There comes a time every now and then when I feel the love coming right back at me as my books overrun my space. They're everywhere!
Just recently I did a little book review - the kind that included going through my stash and donating a bunch to the local library. It was the annual book sale. A double good cause.
The numbers were staggering! I donated over 250 books. Talk about heavy lifting. And, even with that massive purge, I still managed to keep over 400 on my wall-to-wall shelves! This includes everything from slim paperback parables to hefty Shakespearean volumes I held onto from college, parenting guides I can blame to favorite novels that I swear I will read again one day. My cherished "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" books my parents gave for my ninth birthday. (I also have the sequel, "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.") Writing references, popular fiction, edgy nonfiction, children's books, coffee table books and some ridiculous read about decluttering your life.