I never thought the day would come when I'd actually admit I might maybe just kind of am beginning to think about considering downsizing the number of books I have. My collection is split into two. The first part is the happy-to-give-away books in the downstairs Book Nook, which is to serve as a local book exchange. The idea is that once we are living here full time, I'll just keep the doors open and people can come in to browse for a book or to drop unwanted books off. I've provided a couple of chairs and will set up a snack bar, and maybe people will linger for a chat or just settle down to read undisturbed, which would be a happy thing. Kind neighbours have donated most of these books, or I've found them cheap at Value Village or library sales. From time to time, I donate a load to the thrift shop if I find they're not moving.
But the second part of my collection... These are my babies. The carefully curated collection of homesteading, gardening, how-to, history, mystery, and biography books I've lovingly brought together over many years. These are books I've read and re-read and will continue to re-read, like conversing with an old friend or eating a favourite meal. Some are long out of print. Some were written by people I've met and admire. Some are beloved stories from my childhood. I have some at home in the city and have been steadily moving some up to the church. Boxes of them. Plastic totes of them. Shelves of them. And as I've hauled them up to the balcony, I've found myself thinking lately, "Good grief, are ALL of these favourites?" Well...yes. Do I want to part with any of them? No. Will I read them again in the future? Yes. Am I in danger of exceeding the weight bearing capacity of the balcony? Maybe?
Sometimes it's necessary to limit yourself even regarding good and desirable things. Water is healthy for you unless you get too much of it, and then it can drown you. I'm fairly minimalist in all other areas of my life. I own two pairs of shoes. I have about five outfits I just recycle. I have few knicknacks, all of them heirlooms and meaningful pieces. All of my make-up fits in a sandwich baggie. I can and have lived out of one small suitcase for three months. I can and have moved house in a few hours. I could get dressed and cook a meal with my eyes closed, because I know exactly where everything is. Except the books... Why is it that this one area of my life is overflowing?
More to the point, how can a thousand books all be my "favourite"?
But if I do decide---and it's a big if---to cull the books, how would I possibly choose which to keep? It's not true that you'll always be able to find old favourites at the library or online, especially the older books. What if someday I can no longer access the internet and need to look up some gardening information? When I'm an old woman in a rocking chair, won't I need all of these stories to keep me company? Hmm...
More likely I'll be an old woman walled in by stacks of Louise Penny and old seed catalogues, and they'll have to dig me out with a backhoe to put me in a home. Sigh. Yeah, maybe it's time to face reality and acknowledge this is an addiction...
My name is Kristen McKendry, and I'm a bookaholic. Some days I mainline three chapters before breakfast, and I've been guilty of locking myself in the bathroom at work to finish the last bit of a book, because once I get started, I can't stop. If I run out of a book on the subway, I hang over strangers' shoulders to see what they're reading. I neglect housework and yardwork when I'm immersed in a good story. I can't pass a Friends-of-the-Library sale without stopping to browse. Only there's no such thing as browsing, because we both know I'm going to walk out of there with an Alan Bradley or a Michael Pollan. I have books hidden all over the house. I'm not a social reader; I prefer solitude, and I've skipped social outings to hide in my room and read. Sometimes what I'm reading feels more real to me than my real life.
Okay, so, maybe it's not quite that bad. Sorta. But I definitely think I need to address the issue, buckle down, and let some of the books go, before I collapse the balcony. I could probably let go of The Joy of Cheesemaking or my ancient copy of Anne of Green Gables. The Invitation to Italian (1965) or The Timetables of History that only goes up to 1990. The world atlas that still shows Rhodesia. One has to start somewhere...
