There is not going to be a Friday Round-up today (obviously) as I have not been on the interwebs enough this week to have rounded anything up. Hopefully nothing too exciting happened. I expect someone will tell me if I’ve missed anything of particular note.
Anyway, I’ve come today to state that I have a problem. I am addicted to books. I am drawn to them. I cannot help it.
I came to this realization on Tuesday night after I’d managed to acquire five books over three days without meaning to. Sunday I borrowed a book from my mother and bought another at Goodwill. Monday I received a book in the mail that I’d won in a contest. Tuesday I went and saw Jasper Fforde at a local bookstore and ended up with another two books. Then I sat around, surrounded by books, and cackled madly to myself.
It was not an unpleasant feeling.
There are some problems with being a bibliophile. My husband complains how, at the slightest lull in a conversation or an activity, I will have found something to read and be lost to the written word. My bookcases are overflowing. There are books everywhere. I find them in the oddest places. (Under some slippers was the strangest in the last week.)
I will die surrounded by books, and then they will eat my body.
Still, I find I can’t be too worried about my inevitable fate. There are certainly worse ways to go than to be devoured by fiction. As far as addictions go, it’s one I hope to never recover from.