It’s summer and I have a hard time writing when the sun is out. I live in a climate where the sun doesn’t put on his hat too often. So on those days my mind wanders to other things, like getting the house painted whilst doors and windows can be let open for fresh air. But something as simple as that is never easy for a writer. I have books and Books and Books. It was time for a dreaded clear out.
It’s hard to clear out books. Some have changed the way I think, some have angered me, and some have made me laugh. Which to cull? Each book has a life.
I give my books to charities as I have already taken everything out of them I can use, joy, pleasure, knowledge, and it’s time to pass them on to someone else.
But which ones? Some were books that the print was so tiny even a sixteen year old with perfect eyes would squint. Some the pages were so yellow I knew I had to pass them on whilst there was still a chance someone else could read them. Others…it was hard. Very hard. I love this story but will I read it again? I’ve re read the book four times already. I can tell you how the first sentence goes..those books are a part of me. I don’t need the physical to remind me of that.
A job that would take someone else maybe four hours, took me three days, as some of the books begged to be opened and just for a second..take a break…take a break…and read. I had to force myself to stop. Focus on the task on hand.
When I got done, I had a satisfying three shopping carrier bags full of books. Three whole bags! Course when a friend came over and saw the small pile of books leaving the house from thousands, there was a friendly chuckle and shake of the head.
I didn’t dare tell them about the books in the bathroom. Some thirty-five in there. I allowed ten to leave and the rest stay. Why…well why not? There are shelves in there after all.