“Diann, you have to get rid of some books,” my husband says, peering over the stack of novels surrounding his chair in the family room.
Those words strike fear in my heart, causing scenes of “The Shining” to swirl around my mind. For a moment fear flickers in his eyes as he no doubt sees my resemblance to Jack Nicholson.
“I know you love them. They’re hard to part with, but to be honest, I haven’t seen our dog in days,” he says.
“She’s reading.” Without looking up, I turn the page in my current novel.
“She can’t read. She’s 14 years old and blind.” His voice is dark and cold, like a musty basement filled with, um, books. “Maybe you’ve noticed our chimney belches words.”
I shrug. “We’re the envy of the neighborhood.”
I put my book down, gearing up for the same old discussion. “Look, I’ve tried to give some away. I’ve stalked paperboys, grocery clerks and preschoolers. What more do you want from me?”
“When you give some away, don’t buy more,” he says as though he’s created a quote along the status of Ben Franklin.
“Okay, so I have a problem. You’ll need to figure out how to help me get over it.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s not one lick of sympathy in his voice whatsoever.
“Check in the third bedroom, I might have a book on the subject.”
He gives me a deadpan stare. “You’re pathetic.”
So there you have it. The confessions of a book addict. We can’t afford to buy a library. A castle in England is out of the question. So how do you keep your books to a minimum so you don’t lose the family dog?