So, yesterday these arrived through the post, which I am quite excited about. “Wow, new books!” I hear you think with a massive dose of sarcasm, rolling your eyes. Yes, that’s right. New books. But I think that firstly, I should explain my relationship with books…
I have had a great love affair with books from a very early age, possibly ever since my parent caught me leafing through a catalogue whilst sat on the potty at 2 years-old. I am an avid reader, which surprises a lot of people, who don’t think I’m “the reading type.” Whatever that is! But people do generally tend to misinterpret me a lot of the time, which is another story…
Anyway, me and books. When I was a kid, I read voraciously, mainly pony stories as I was one of those horse-mad kids from a family who unfortunately couldn’t afford to pay for regular riding lessons. So I lived vicariously through stories… Eventually, this wasn’t enough, and I moved onto my mum’s books – Danielle Steel, Catherine Cookson, James Herbert, that kind of thing. I think I read my first James Herbert novel at 9 years-old (The Rats), and adored it. Very soon, having exhausted the local library of pony and animal stories, I moved onto the adult fiction section and scoured the shelves for horror stories. This was before the days of the YA novel, I might add, so there was no bridge between children’s and adults books, apart from the likes of Judy Blume, and I’d read all of them! This is when I discovered Stephen King, Ramsay Campbell, Graham Masterton, and Peter James, and loved them all.
So as you can probably guess, the library is one of my favourite places to be. However, there is another place that I do prefer. The bookshop.
Not only do I love to read, but I also just love books. I love the sight of them, the feel of them, the smell of them.. yes, I sniff the pages of books. It is an addiction, and as addictions go, I think it’s pretty tame, so don’t judge me! The smell of a new paperback is orgasmic. Okay, maybe that is going a little too far, but I did warn you about my relationship with books.
I own a fair amount of books. I think some people would say, a stupid amount. I have a bookcase in my living room, I have them on the French dresser in the kitchen. They are stacked up on the landing, in my son’s cupboards, and an entire top shelf in my wardrobe is lined with skyscrapers of books. There are even boxes full in my mum’s loft. Did I mention, I love books. I love to read them, I love to smell them, I love to acquire them. And I hoard them, like a squirrel with nuts. At the moment, I have a huge To Be Read pile, yet I still insist on regularly visiting the library, and online shopping at Amazon. Soon, I will run out of room to store them sensibly, and they will begin to pile up in every area of my home.
I know that I should part with at least some of them, as I will probably never read certain novels again. But I am quite possessive of my property. Also, I am quite proud of my collection.
As far as addictions go, I think mine is veering on the sensible side. It isn’t as if I smoke incessantly, or crave illicit drugs. I love books, and that’s hardly going to kill me, is it?
Well, unless my collection topples over onto me one day and suffocates me!