This weekend (it’s 19 degrees this morning, snow on the ground) here in the Blue Ridge Mountains, trying to avoid cabin fever, I’ve been taking inventory of my books. I try to resist being a book version of King Midas (you’ll remember he loved running his hands through his golden gains), but it’s tough. Some books remind me of the halcyon days when I first read them, others almost jump off the shelves, begging for a sixth or seventh read. Others, well are simply there.
I do try not to be a hoarder. Truly. I really do.
I can see the limits of my book-storing capacity and I have to consider that some books might have to go. But which? And why?
Well. Nothing has to go today. So with that chore tabled for another day, it’s back to writing.