I realize fully that this title is not newsworthy. I’m a writer. I read voraciously. Ergo – I’m probably the type of person who buys books.
Except, these days, I’m not. (Well, not really.)
Growing up, all my money went to books and CDs because those were the things I cared most about (well, it was the reading and the music more than the physical objects). They were my treasures, all lined up on my shelves. I worked to feed my book habit and saved the rest.
I loved the fact that being an English major meant (mostly) buying books (not textbooks). My book fees were much cheaper, especially because online used bookstores had just become a thing (remember half.com? I just checked – these days, it redirects you to ebay). This also meant I wasn’t selling them back at the end of the semester – they became a part of my ever growing library. (Though, over the years, a number of them have been donated. A girl can only move a book she likely won’t ever read again so many times. Enter: the first rule for curating my little library.)
When I moved into my home that I currently live in, I went in with the mind frame that this was my forever home. I would create my little library in the room designated as my office, and here my books would stay forever. Never to be moved again.
You’d think this would give me free reign to buy whatever books I wanted, simply adding new shelves as needed. (This was my thought at least.)
Then I joined three book clubs. And I quickly realized that if I bought every book needed for those plus the ones I wanted to read for fun, I’d quickly run out of places to put shelves, not to mention risk the subflooring of the room where my office exists. Enter: the rule that I’ll get the books from the library first, and if I LOVE it, then I’ll buy it. (But I also still wander book shops and take home things that look interesting. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )
Then recently, I started thinking more seriously about moving across an entire ocean, and suddenly I’m looking at those shelves with new eyes. Not only am I getting pickier about what I am adding to it, I’m actively considering what I can do without that is already there. (Books are heavy. Oceans are wide.)
So, to add a book at this point feels like a big deal. And this year, I’ve added a total of four. Two for research for a novel I’m writing, one to support an indie writer I follow on insta, and then a book I read for fun – Why We Talk Funny: The Real Story Behind Our Accents by Valerie Fridland. I knew I would likely be buying this before I even read it (because I loved her last book Like, Literally, Dude: Arguing for the Good in Bad English). But I followed my rules – I waited to get it from the library, gobbled it up in a few days, and then still went back and forth about adding it to my collection. A book I LOVED.
But ultimately, I went and bought it and set it on my shelf.
Something I’ve done countless times before. But these days it feels more and more like a big decision.
