Only Thousands of Choices

I’ve never had much sympathy for women who go to their closets and declare, “I have nothing to wear!”  Usually, they have more than enough to clothe a third world country.  I’ve never been one of those women, and always been pretty smug about it.

That brings me to this past weekend.  I was alone in the house and wanted to sit down for an hour with a book.  I had just finished what I was reading, and wanted to read something, preferably an old favorite.  I scoured the bookshelves and couldn’t find anything.  Yes, I declared, “I have nothing to read!”

Now, those of you who’ve followed this blog for awhile have seen pictures of my bookshelves.  I tried counting my books once, and stopped when I got to 1000.  This past year, I’ve tried to cut back on my addiction and have tried to use my library more, only buying things I really like and can’t live without.  So, I have all these books, some of which I’ve read and some of which I haven’t gotten to yet, along with the books from the library.  And yet I have nothing to read?

At least I know I have a problem, right?  I guess as a writer, I can’t have too many books.  I’m just going to keep telling myself that…