I love bookstores.
I love books, bookmarks, book bags (especially ones with book quotes or book covers on them), and journals–though my last trip to a bookstore, a large leather-bound sketchbook fell off a low shelf and landed painfully corner-first in my knee. The corners were unexpectedly hard and pointy. I shouldn’t have tried to catch it with my leg.
Bookstores are a bit dangerous for me. And for a lot of bibliophiles, I imagine. We love the physicality of the book, and we want to gather them up in stacks and take them home with us. I go, and pick up a book, and feel the heft of it in my hands, and really, truly want to keep it. Have you had one of those moments?
However, I have just enough self-control to not take all the interesting books home–the ones with the nifty covers, or the eye-catching titles, or by an author I know I adore–but I do add them to my to-read list. My enormous, ever-growing, monster of a to-read list.
Which is why I have to-read list anxiety.
I want there to be enough books on there so that I can’t finish the list–add a book for every one I read, or thereabouts, with perhaps twenty or thirty books on it. As I’ve mentioned before, I have far more than that–more than 120, at my last count–and it grows in leaps, several titles in one go.
Vexing, isn’t it? The problem is I have too many sources of book-suggestions. Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, the many book-related blogs I follow, and my friends. Adding a bookstore wander where a dozen books leap out at me from the new science fiction section…
Well, to-read lists are meant to grow like weeds, anyway.