The Book Junkie
I have a dark secret. Yes, I am an addict. My addiction takes money out of my grocery budget, and it sure doesn’t help that a bookstore is located next where I shop for food.
“Yes, I’m Ann, and I’m a bookoholic.”
You think I’m kidding, but I’ve been known to have several copies of one book, example: The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I use this book to lure unsuspecting readers into the hardcore material.
I’ve been known to have both hardbacks and softbacks of the same title. And–this is even worse: I will purchase a book I own because the cover art changed; case in point, The Hours by Michael Cunningham.
Of course at Christmas and birthdays, I’m an easy present. Just give me a Barnes and Noble gift card. I just love their bargain book selection. Shame on me! That is not how a published author is supposed to act. We’re support the industry by paying full price. What can I say? My need outweighs my ethics.
My addiction has worked for me. I have a writing career due to my insatiable desire to do more than just drink in words. I allow sentences, paragraphs, and pages to move through me onto paper. I still write a lot of old fashion longhand, just like I must hold books in my hand, instead of looking on a screen. My writing room’s walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookcases and every shelf is full. This leaves my desk to sit in the middle of the room, a queen overseeing her subjects.
My addiction has been widely accepted and even useful. High school and college students will come to me for required reading of the classics. Friends and family now understand they will receive a book for special occasions, whether they want it or not.
I’ve accepted my need, embraced it. Those closest to me have learned to live with my passion. I am what I am, a book junkie.