This disorderly bookshop makes me think of Fourth Down from Fearless, where Ava likes to shop. The wonderful clutter of too many books.
I've been a bookworm from the word go. My parents read to me until I was old enough to read to myself. A family tradition. It was horrifying, in school, when my friends said they never read for fun. Reading was addictive, always, but with school, and a 48-hour work week for so many years, I didn't have much time for it.
When I finished school, and took up writing in a serious fashion, I made time to read because it's a necessary element of writing. Feed the brain, better the work. And in the last couple of years, I've devolved slowly into this person who is hooked on books, in every way imaginable, like they're meth. I love the smell of the pages; I love seeing them unread on my shelf; I love reading all different genres of them, and talking about them, and blogging about them, and drawing creativity from them.
Book club has been really fun, because I'm reading books I wouldn't normally choose for myself, and I'm stretching in that way. Last night's discussion of The Light Between Oceans was a great one. As a side note, I want, this year, to document book club a little better, and do a review for each month's book. February's read is this.
Basically, I've turned into this completely obsessed, hopelessly addicted book nut, who reads too many, writes too many, and collects too many. I'm pretty sure there's no hope of reversing the condition, at this point.
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