The last thing we need in this house is more books. Our bookshelves are full, and I have 3 stacks of books in front of my nightstand. Calvin reaches for his old standbyes again and again: Complete Works of Shakespeare, Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, and literature anthologies from his teaching days. I reach for romances, mysteries and crime thrillers.
Still, having said all that, I admit to one and all that I cannot enter a bookstore without buying one or two books. Yesterday it was Linda Lael Miller's Two Brothers.
Now, since our writers' group is held weekly at a bookstore, this could pose a potential problem. But Calvin, in his sly way, has handled it. We always manage to arrive at Given's Book Store with just enough time to order his cafe Americano and my cuppachino before the group starts. "There is no time for book browsing," he states, with his hand firmly grasping my elbow, leading me to the cafe in the back. Although my eyes are scanning the shelves and the many book displays, my armpits damp with "book excitement" and my palms itching to pluck one off the shelf and turn it over to read the blurbs on the back cover, I do not stop to indulge. And since our meetings are so interesting that they are never over until the bookstore is ready to close, my debit card exits the store still safely tucked in my wallet.
Some women have weakness for shoes or handbags or jewelry, not I. For I am a book hound, a book collector, a book lover. Makes no difference if they're new or used. I love them all. Why? I think it is the dreams they represent. Every book is a dream of the writer. He or she has dreamt of making some type of impact with the publication of his or her book. A dream takes wing that this book will become a best seller or bring acclaim or win a prize. In a sense, books are dream machines. And who can resist the magic of a good dream?