I’m on holiday this week, armed with books to read and laptop to write on. Disgraceful, I know. Let’s move on: I took advantage of my work-free Monday to walk into the nearby town and buy a couple of books. One’s on writing (Robert McKee’s Story), on the recommendation of friend Jim Swallow; one’s on weapons, because I saw it in the bookstore and thought “that’ll be useful” (Among other things I have discovered the part of a mace called a flange, and that if I use this word in prose I must do so carefully).
Ten minutes later, returned to my lodgings, the question arose: where am I going to put these books? My bookshelves are full. I have two entire units for books at home, and I filled them the moment they were assembled. In fact, one of them is filled with books which sit on their backs rather than their bases, because I can fit more books on the shelf if they’re stacked on top of each other. (This means finding a book will take a couple of minutes, as I have to pull each stack out to check the spines.)
There are books on top of the bookshelves, on the desk, piled fifteen high on the bedside unit and on the floor beside the bed. Many have been read, but I suspect just as many haven’t. And there are books in boxes or crates, where I know I’m almost certainly not going to read them, but I think either I might or I should, so I haven’t gotten rid of them.
And I’m still buying more books. I like books.
It’s looking like high time I should have a clear-out. Time to consider a ‘seller’ account on eBay, time to visit a charity shop, time to forget how much a set of videos cost me originally and dispose of them. Clear everything I don’t need out… and at some point, replace them with a few more books. And start looking more seriously at the idea of an e-reader.