I buy books.
I used to feel guilty that I didn’t use the library, but no longer. I look at it this way. By buying a book I’m supporting a writer. If I buy from an independent bookstore, I’m supporting them as well. It’s an investment in what I believe in, with something in it for me.
The thrill of opening a package from Powell’s or Amazon. Or just bringing a bag home from Barnes and Noble, our only local bookstore–reaching in to pull out the books. I run my hand over the smooth cover, breathe in the smell of paper and ink, flip through the carefully printed and as yet unmarked pages.
In March I had to change planes in Paris on my way to Positano, Italy, for the Sirenland Writers Conference. I was sitting next to a 10-year-old boy. As we circled Paris preparing to land, we caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower (which I’ve seen many times since I lived in France for a year), but I don’t know who was more excited–the little boy or me. Every time I see the Eiffel Tower, I’m as excited as I was the first time. That’s the way it is with a new book.
Hence the problem of shelving.