Books

I grew up kissing books and bread. —Salman Rushdie

I am a book junkie. All sorts of books—poem, short story, novel, nonfiction, cereal boxes. Yes, I love to read. Reading is good, but it goes way beyond just reading. Oh, I’ll read anything, if my particular fix isn’t available, I resort to reading the backs of cereal boxes, flyers, match covers. It doesn’t matter. Books are my drug of choice.

Reading has saved me more than once, but it is the book, the physical, solid familiar book. And it doesn’t matter what book. Old musty books draw me like a kid to water. The smell, the feel of old leather covers, the dark mysterious covers, but best of all are old books with margin writing or writing on the blank pages in the front or back.

Bookstores hold me gripped by want and need. Old books, new books, paperback books, it doesn’t matter. I love snorting the musky scent of old books and touching the fragile pages. I love thumbing through new crisp paged books with the bright colors and paperbacks are like penny candy to me.

Worse, give me an hour and I will find, at least, five books I simply must have, no matter where I happen to be. Boxes of old books at the flea market can make my day. I don’t need any more books, I don’t have room for them, but they call me like little orphaned kittens. And I am caught. I cannot say no.

I was in junior high when I started writing in margins and front and end pages. I think it was the idea of ‘being published’ that did it. Knowing the words I wrote would be seen by some new seventh grader the next year.

I’ve tried to save me from myself. It doesn’t matter. I cannot deny my addiction.