Yesterday was the last day at Queensboro for the person that trained me. She’s moving on to manage a Yoga center here in town. They put together a new notebook for her to jot ideas and thoughts, and asked everyone to write in it. I was not in yesterday, so I emailed my two cents. That included quotes from books and poems, and a few tea bags and fortune cookies. The person I emailed my letter to wrote back to say that I had a way with words. I wouldn’t have that if I didn’t read. All the time.
A few days ago, I finally cleared off my iPhone and made room for public domain books on it, so I’ll never be without something to read. I also paid to download the $5.99 McSweeny’s ap, which delivers new content from their publications, daily. Books are my pacifiers.
While visiting the Sanibel Island Book Shop last evening, I prowled through the three aisles of carefully selected books and stacked a high pile on the cashwrap. I told the owner “It’s like I’ve never seen a bookstore before when I come in here.” “Weren’t you just here a couple of months ago?” she asked. (I don’t live there.) “Yes.”
It is almost physically impossible for me to enter a bookstore and not leave with a book. Despite all of the magazine/internet articles, and pleading from friends and spouse, I don’t go to the library. Despite the financial sense it makes, I don’t borrow my books. I buy them.
I say, frequently, that I might have to burn my books one page at a time to keep warm when I’m old. I might even have to boil them down for the cellulose to eat. But, until I can’t, I’ll have my books.
The USA Today earlier this week said that people who buy 100 or 300 books a year are gone from the bookstores. They only buy on Amazon. The average book purchase by an average person is ONE BOOK A YEAR. I simply can’t fathom that.
My name is Katie and I’m a book addict.
And I’m NOT going to rehab.