I am an addict.
I thought I would blog it before Mr. G does.
I am a obsessive compulsive book addict. I can see you breathe a sigh of relief going “Phew, that’s okay Liz, it isn’t that bad, surely.”
Well. You are wrong. It is bad. If I didn’t occasionally get rid of books, I don’t think we would have anywhere to sit. I have got three large bookshelves full of my “favourite” books. Books that I am happy to reread, cart about in my handbag. I have books on ancient history, fantasy, horror, thrillers, books on writing, various crafts and diy, gardening, childrens books, faery tales, mythology, medieval history, religions, theology, ancient mysteries. I have books on Norse legends, a favourite copy of Beowulf so well read we know the passages off by heart. I think I have read every angle on Arthur and his knights, I have various miscellaneous books on Celtic tales, French faery tales, I have a copy of the Annotated Brothers Grimm (complete with illustrations by Arthur Rackham). I have a limited edition copy of the Chronicles of Narnia.
And it isn’t as if I don’t read them!
No. These are books with my fingerprints in them. They have all been read. And loved. Companions on train journeys, flights, long lazy baths, even longer and lazier weekends when there is nothing else to do but settle down and read.
I have books on the windowsill next to the bed. I have a bookcase on the landing crammed full of books. I carry at least two books with me each day – one a novel, another any one of the above subjects oh, and a notebook to make notes and scribble ideas and such like. (Always handy when you are sitting in Starbucks, plugged into your MP3 player and idea for a brilliant storyline strikes you out of the blue between sipping a double mocha latte espresso drink with cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles whilst wondering why they don’t hire barristas who can speaka da eeenglishe.)
I can’t be trusted in Waterstones. Or Foyles. Or Forbidden Planet. Or Ottakars. Or Books etc. And not second hand bookshops either. They call to me. I swear it.
If I am not buying for myself, I always manage to come away with something for someone I know. I don’t understand it when I ring Mr. G and say “Hi, I am on my way to Waterstones, do you want anything from there?” and he goes “Uhm, no, not really.” He doesn’t visit bookshops as often as I do, totally relying on my habit to get enough books for both of us. But still, I can’t understand it…how can you not know what your next book is going to be? Even if it isn’t a specific author or book…maybe a genre.
My name is Liz and I have a problem. Please donate generously.
Well. You are wrong. It is bad. If I didn’t occasionally get rid of books, I don’t think we would have anywhere to sit. I have got three large bookshelves full of my “favourite” books. Books that I am happy to reread, cart about in my handbag. I have books on ancient history, fantasy, horror, thrillers, books on writing, various crafts and diy, gardening, childrens books, faery tales, mythology, medieval history, religions, theology, ancient mysteries. I have books on Norse legends, a favourite copy of Beowulf so well read we know the passages off by heart. I think I have read every angle on Arthur and his knights, I have various miscellaneous books on Celtic tales, French faery tales, I have a copy of the Annotated Brothers Grimm (complete with illustrations by Arthur Rackham). I have a limited edition copy of the Chronicles of Narnia.
And it isn’t as if I don’t read them!
No. These are books with my fingerprints in them. They have all been read. And loved. Companions on train journeys, flights, long lazy baths, even longer and lazier weekends when there is nothing else to do but settle down and read.
I have books on the windowsill next to the bed. I have a bookcase on the landing crammed full of books. I carry at least two books with me each day – one a novel, another any one of the above subjects oh, and a notebook to make notes and scribble ideas and such like. (Always handy when you are sitting in Starbucks, plugged into your MP3 player and idea for a brilliant storyline strikes you out of the blue between sipping a double mocha latte espresso drink with cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles whilst wondering why they don’t hire barristas who can speaka da eeenglishe.)
I can’t be trusted in Waterstones. Or Foyles. Or Forbidden Planet. Or Ottakars. Or Books etc. And not second hand bookshops either. They call to me. I swear it.
If I am not buying for myself, I always manage to come away with something for someone I know. I don’t understand it when I ring Mr. G and say “Hi, I am on my way to Waterstones, do you want anything from there?” and he goes “Uhm, no, not really.” He doesn’t visit bookshops as often as I do, totally relying on my habit to get enough books for both of us. But still, I can’t understand it…how can you not know what your next book is going to be? Even if it isn’t a specific author or book…maybe a genre.
My name is Liz and I have a problem. Please donate generously.
1 comment:
"Addict"?
A crack addict who's 4 hrs into cold turkey displays withdrawal symptoms that are an absolute doddle compared to the drama I'm subjected to everytime I have to go drag her out of a bookshop because they want to close for the night.
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