After reading Leyna's biblio-confessions over at the Bark, in which she readily admits to having once licked a book, I found myself considering my own brand of reading-related "isms." And believe me, I've had plenty of time to stock up.
Number one on the list is a big one, a habit that I (somewhat) jokingly refer to as my propensity to book-hoard. Despite five moves in the last four years, and despite a tiny studio apartment, I have an insane amount of books. Out of room on the bookshelves? No problem. Fill up the closet. And the bottom dresser drawer. And the cabinet over the fridge. When I moved here, I had one book in my backpack: "The Gunslinger" by Stephen King. ONE BOOK came to California with me.
The other 302,938,221 of them arrived in my apartment stealthily (with the exception of the tipsy "Game of Thrones" book-buying extravaganza,) and I didn't really take stock of the situation until a bookcase collapsed on my foot. (Thanks for that, Ikea.) I tried to do a bit of purging at this point: everything came off the shelves, was dusted, was pored over. Marginalia was reviewed. (Admittedly, I spent a moment sniffing "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," which still smells exactly like the man that loaned it to me.) In the end, I got rid of five books and even that pained me.
Add to this the fact that I live two blocks from a branch of the San Francisco Public Library, a place to which I am unhealthily addicted. Every time some luscious new read pops up on a book blog, I am instantly requesting it from the SFPL. There are about 30 books on my "hold" list, and I just got a glorious email that four of them have arrived and are ready for pick-up. So tonight, all of these will also be in my apartment:
These are on my desk at work right now:
My name is Karen, and I am a book glutton. Thank you.