I have an obscene amount of books.
As a reader, that’s to be expected. All the books that I’ve read and decided to keep were all faithfully scanned this morning. Tonight, after dinner, I decided to go through the pile of to read books.
Of course, pile isn’t a particularly descriptive word. It could be a haphazard stack of four books on the corner of a desk. It could be ten forgotten paperbacks heaped on top of each other in the back of a closet. It could even be a milk crate of books destined for the used book store. (I have one of those in the hallway right now.)
No, this pile is more than a mere pile. The books are stacked three deep, two high on the top shelf and two deep, one high(ish) on the bottom shelf (because they are hard covers). I knew I had a lot of books there. Lots. It’s mitigated my fiction purchasing habits a great deal. But it wasn’t until the program ran the tally did I realize exactly how many I had.
The damage? One book shy of 70 titles.
No more buying books until I have fewer books in my to read pile than years lived. That seems reasonable – so long as I start reading now. At the rate I’m going I’ll need another benchmark, increasingly smaller numbers like my bra size, the total number of pets I’ve ever owned, or the number of episodes of whichever is Joss Whedon’s shortest running television series.
Better get reading!
The irony? I just renewed my Chapters/Indigo club card.