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…