A girl and her cat take on the world with nothing more than a cup of tea and a good book and enough dreams to fill the universe.
Instead of taking some time to read or study reading strategies for a test tomorrow, I thought I would write a quick blog post. I have a confession to make. I, Maggie, am an avid reader and book collector. Many of you may be thinking “that’s hardly a confession.” Yet, it’s true. I love books. I love all books. I read books. I buy books. I borrow books and don’t give them back. I lend out books. I buy multiple copies of the same book (you should see my impressive collection of Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! I almost have a classroom set it seems). I have library cards to several libraries. I keep trying to convince Barnes and Noble to give me my teacher discount early. I have a nearly inexhaustible wishlist on Amazon. I have monthly book goals. I am all about the books the way Meghan Trainor is all about the bass.
What does being an avid reader and book collector look like? Books everywhere. I have books stacked at least five high at any given moment in two neat stacks on my radiator. I have three books on my nightstand. I have five or more books on my desk chair. I have a book in my purse, two in my backpack. I have books taking up 3/4 of the space on my desk. I have five bookcases that are overflowing with books. I have an ottoman that has a removable top that reveals, you guessed it, more books.
Having this many books is both a blessing and a curse. I have no space. I will be going to NCTE this fall and have set a personal goal to come back with 50 books. I have nowhere to put these books, but who cares? I certainly don’t. When I move out of my tiny room at the end of the hall in my parent’s house, I’ll be that person the landlord didn’t write the contract for. Fish tanks? Those can only be 10 gallons or under. Books? Unlimited, but just as dangerous in large quantities. My parents are constantly bugging me that I should be boxing up my books so that I can make room for new ones, but they do not seem to understand my weird desire to be in the same room as all of my books, even if that means I have bookcase crises in the middle of the night when one decides to give up the ghost and send hundreds of books plummeting to the ground. I stand there to try to support it and grow extra arms like some Hindu book reading goddess so I can catch all of the books before they decide to take the flying leap while yelling for help like a mad woman. Help almost never arrives, so I have become quite the expert at getting my books off the shelves and then breaking out my burgeoning carpentry skills, only to realize that my bookcase was put in upside down.
This is what it is to have a book addiction. It’s spending too much money on Amazon and at every book seller in the world. It’s designing vacations around conferences based on reading. It’s not knowing which way is up on your bookcase because you cannot read the warning labels behind all of the books. It’s taking out a subscription to Handyman Magazine so you can build your own bookcase when all you can afford are a couple of two by fours because you blew the rest on books. It’s staying up too late the night before a test to read. It’s writing about reading.
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