It goes without saying that I have had an (un)healthy obsession with books since a young age. Even as far back as Good Dog, Carl, I have recognized publishers of books (I loved Green Tiger Press and Puffin Books most of all), and I would spend many afternoons devising new ways to organize my shelf.
The feel of a book, that texture that is just as much a part of the story as the words on the page drew me in, as did the illustrations, the covers, the font: basically everything that makes a book a book, I loved. I cherished my books so much that I would read them at awkward angles just so the spines wouldn’t get hurt. My dad once bought me bookplates for my collection, and I annoyed my sister by making her “check out” books any time she wanted to read something.
There was a brief period of time, when I was on the road with my family for over a year, where I didn’t have books at my disposal, except the one I was reading day-to-day (carsickness making reading difficult, but not impossible). After that, I never really got my library back. Thankfully, living with another bibliophile has insured I will never be short on books again. As of today, our shelves (which have only been around for about two years), are almost completely full, and I’m fairly certain we’ll have too many for the living room by the end of 2014.
Do you have an (un)healthy addiction to books?