I found myself reading much more as I got older, past the hormonal rages of my teens. It didn’t drive me crazy any more to sit at home on a Friday night and read like it once had. I devoured novels: fantasy, mystery, horror, science fiction, the classics, chick-lit, histories, fiction, memoirs, and biographies. I started to read three and four a week, always on the hunt for the next good thing.
The problem with my love affair at the moment is that it has started to border on the obsessive, which is never healthy. I’ve filled the tiny apartment I share with my husband and two cats with books. Stacked three deep on bookshelves, piled on table tops, flowing along the top of the dresser, and piled so high on my bedside table, they reach the ceiling. I have a lot of books.
I’ve read a little over half and the rest are titles that I saw in bookstores, thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and anywhere else I can find them — I just had to have them. I buy them and plan to read them, and I will read them I tell myself firmly, but there is always another cover that catches my eye; another story line that seems to grab my attention.
The saying is true, so many books and so little time. Depending on your beliefs there is an afterlife. Can we read once we are dead? I sure hope so.
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