I Really Need a Support Group
I need to stand in front of a group of similarly addicted people and say: “My name is Mitzi and I’m a bookaholic.”
The above picture is only one of my TBR piles and it doesn’t show my bookcases. There are three half bookcases full (full I tell you) of books about King Arthur and/or British history. In addition there are the following: one bookcase full of books on Gettysburg (a very, very tiny part of that canon), one book case full of books about animals (mainly wolves, birds and cats), one half of a bookcase on Native American history and lore, and one full bookcase of esoteric studies from witchcraft to the Bible to ghosts. Throw in about ten books on or by The Beatles and you have my obsession(s). In between you’ll find some classics, King, Brontes, and several “complete” Poes (like I need more than one complete Poe).
And we won’t mention the 1700+ I have settled on my Kindle. BTW: I’m looking for a solar charger for my Kindle…you know…because the Zombie Apocalypse.
Have I read ALL of these books? Of course not. Some I’ve read completely, at least once, and others, I’ve read bits here and there for research on whatever rabbit hole interests me at the time. Right now it’s a tossup between internment of Italian citizens in America and Britain during World War II and the British home front at the same time.
When and where did this horror start? How was I dragged into this tragedy?
I blame my mother. You would know that if you’d read To a Love of My Life post of a couple of months ago. She took me and my sister to the den of this iniquity…the local library.
I was a fairly bright kid but not the kid picked for games. If picked at all, I was usually picked last. Yep, not picked but picked-on. From eight years old and forward through my school years, I was the 1950s’ euphemism, “chubby.” In fact “chubby” was the name of the dresses I wore.
Pop would say I always had my “nose in a book.” I did and I was not embarrassed. He thought I should be outside playing; I thought not. I even had books on my bed and sometimes pretended my bed was magic and would fly all over the world with just me and my books.
In the last few years I’ve been keeping an Excel spreadsheet listing the books I’ve read during the year. I input the date I finished the book, the title, author, published date, and a brief note. (No, I’m not OCD — the opposite). I started that because I want to know just how bad my addiction is. My suppliers are Barnes & Noble, Amazon, used book sales, and, of course, my local library.
I have another confession. It seems that I, like my mother before me, lead my daughter into “the life.” But for her, it will get worse. Soon she will be in a PhD program so she can teach others about our addiction. Every time a young person I know (including my own grandson) has a birthday or it’s Christmas, guess what I give them. Yes! And I don’t hang my head in shame.
Now that I’m retired I try to get household chores and my writing done in the morning so I can settle down with a book in the afternoon. I don’t usually watch television except for a few recorded shows with my husband…and (I have to admit and will write about this another time) “General Hospital.”
How do I decide what to read? I go from the classics (I read Northanger Abbey this year) to bestsellers (I’m waiting to get the Comey book). I check the library’s website for their new listings and put in a reserve for what looks interesting. I have some authors whose books I’ll read as soon as I can — Ann Cleeves is one. I have a list of books that I look for online, at used book sales, or in the library. I’m working my way through Ruth Rendell’s long list of novels, because, sadly, she’ll never write another. And no matter where I go in the car, there’s an audio book playing. I like most genres and nonfiction. I’m not a discerning addict.
I told you I had a problem.
So, if you could just lead me to a support group of book addictions…but I have a feeling most of them are here already.
