Books and reading—feasts for the senses and the mind. Books provide one of the finest forms of escapism - I ought to know. Growing up as a junior insomniac in a highly dysfunctional family, reading was my drug of choice. Even in labor, I read from the first contraction until the moment I was wheeled into the delivery room and the nurse had to forceably remove the book from my hands.
I love books. I used to own 145 boxes of them which I kept in storage. Two years ago, I cleared out 50 of those boxes, categorized them, and put them out in my driveway for sale - 25 cents each. At the end of 8 hours, I'd sold one book - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
The next day I loaded all 50 boxes into my husband's pickup and drove them to Goodwill—it was a lot like giving beloved pets to the SPCA.
Yeah, yeah....I know. Tree Books are becoming a thing of the past. . .but I can't help it—I still love the feel of the paper as I turn the pages, and the smell of the ink and the glue, and the thud they make after I've fallen asleep and they slip out of my hands to the floor.