I’ve checked, and I don’t think there’s 12-step program. But if there was, I think I’d qualify. I’m hopelessly addicted to books.
Not a bad thing, you say. What’s wrong with reading?
But the unfortunate fact is that I’m more addicted to buying them and hanging out in places that sell them than actually reading them.
Obviously, this is not a trend. If there were more people like me, independent bookstores and even large chains would not be folding left and right.
I’m not sure what it is – something about the smell of the paper, maybe. Or even the musty carpet smell that repulses me in restaurants but draws me into the folding metal chair in a quiet upstairs corner to thumb through a slender volume of Annie Dillard poems that I don’t even like.
“I might learn to like it,” I tell my husband. “I liked Pilgrim at Tinker’s Creek.”
The ultimate enabler, he points out that it wouldn’t take up that much room on our shelves.
“She’s a really good writer,” he adds.
While he is off building his own stash, I try but cannot put it back, even though its yellowing leaves suggest that others have had no such trouble. I am armed with all kinds of rationale. I am saving bookstores, doing penance for past Kindle purchases, forcing myself to read what must be good writing in order to better myself.
“This looks interesting,” I tell the checkout clerk, in search of a hopeful comment, such as “It was once the staff pick of the month.”
“Yeah,” she says instead. “Do you want the receipt in the bag?”
Once home, I know it will join the neglected lineup of unread books which, unlike the clothes I faithfully toss when I haven’t worn them for a year, I cannot bring myself to part with.
With clothes, I can ask how wearing it makes me feel. When I say “dreadful,” it’s a no-brainer. With old stuff, like kitchen gadgets, I can ask if it’s “moving me forward,” and if I haven’t used it, obviously not.
But with a book, you have to read it first to know the answer, and therein lies the problem. If I had just a little more time – maybe some rainy afternoon when paying bills or running errands didn’t seem more important – then I would know. Until then, I can only imagine the nuggets and insights that lie within.
“Just promise yourself you will discard a book for every one you buy,” someone suggested years ago at a Simply Living meeting. It was in response to a woman who had filled her oven with surplus books because she didn’t like to cook anyway. Her husband was annoyed.
“At least I’m not that bad,” I’d told myself at the time. But maybe I am.
My solution has been to buy more book shelves, more magazine racks, and even nail a wooden apothecary cabinet to the bedroom wall to fit a few more in. Oh, and to feel guilty because I am actually acquiring more stuff in order to house books that might make me feel good or move me forward if I actually read them.
Obviously, a 12-step program is in order. And if there’s not one just for bookaholism, maybe I need some books on 12-step programs in general.
Amazon tells me there are 2,353. Maybe not.
Copyright 2015 Pat Snyder
