I have a confession to make.
I am a book addict.
There is absolutely nothing recovering about it.
I adore the feel of books, the smell of books, bookshelves overloaded with books. I LOVE BOOKS.
In many ways, it’s why I became an author. My favorite authors as a teen (no offense, Janette Oke, Michael Phillips, Bodie Thoene, and Frank Peretti) simply could not keep up with my voracious, all-consuming appetite. I read too fast. I inhaled books in hours rather than days. It got so bad that the small Christian bookstore owner would see me walk in and grab the publishers’ catalogs and shoot them across the table to me.
I would salivate over the new, yet to be released books…much as I do to this day.
If I bought the first book in the series, I had to buy them all…though I did peter out on the House of Winslow series about book 35.
I was faithful to tried and true authors, purchasing each new book just as soon as I could, yet open to trying new authors.
I read across genres…but never really developed a taste for science fiction. My apologies to all those who adore that genre.
My TBR pile is ever growing. It seems a book is added the moment (or a bit before!) another is pulled off. It towers and shivers its way into boxes.
My lending library rivals many public and church libraries. My friends adore me for it. And when I’m done, I donate most of the books to church libraries so that others can enjoy my friends. Even so, my bookshelves threaten to buckle from their burden of books.
I. Adore. Books.
Always have, always will.
Thus said, the unrepentant book addict.
Oh, and have I mentioned I’m raising a future generation of book addicts?
(Please tell me I’m not alone. Are there any other book addicts here?)