We all have vices. Some of us swear or smoke or do any one of dozens of things that would earn us time in one of Dante’s 9 levels of h-e-double-hockey sticks. My weakness, the object of my greed and much longing, is books.
I don’t just mean to say I like to read. I’m insanely protective about my books. I hoard them. I take them with me on vacation, keep them in the car, read before bedtime and keep them with me while I’m waiting in line to get the kids.
Ask me what I want for Christmas, I’ll tell you: money for books. If I see you in possession of a book you aren’t handling properly, I’ll say something. When I’m at a bookstore, I become testy if I find a book that’s been improperly shelved. If someone interrupts my reading time, they had better have a darn good reason for doing so (such as an axe murderer breaking into our home or sinkhole opening up near my favorite reading spot).
I love the way books make me feel, the way I can lose myself in a good read that doesn’t happen with most movies I see. I dream about the books I read and I dream that I’m reading books.
This post is about someone with an addiction — the substance is the written word. I admit it — it’s the first step, but I have no interest in recovery. I’ll indulge my thirst for books like the glutton I am until I run out of things to read… and then, I’ll start over.
We all have vices. Some of us swear or smoke.