The Bookshelf Is Officially Out of Control

 

There comes a point in every book lover's life when you have to admit you don't need another bookshelf.

You need another room.

I've reached that point.

My books used to be arranged quite nicely. Fiction together, non-fiction together, a little section for the books I hadn't read yet. I even briefly attempted alphabetical order, which lasted approximately three days.

Now?

There are books on top of books. Books wedged sideways into gaps. Books balanced precariously on other books. There is a pile beside the bed that I'm fairly certain constitutes a health and safety violation.

And yet I keep buying them.

This is partly because I have absolutely no resistance when someone says, "You HAVE to read this."

Do I?

Excellent. I'll buy it immediately.

It doesn't seem to matter that I already have enough unread books to keep me occupied through several lengthy power cuts.

I've also discovered that my definition of "I need that book" is remarkably flexible.

Beautiful cover? Need it.

Someone recommended it? Need it.

99p on Kindle? Obviously need it.

Read it fifteen years ago and vaguely remember liking it? Better buy another copy.

Adaptation coming to Netflix? I'd better read it before everyone starts talking about it.

The worst part is that I genuinely intend to read every single one.

Perhaps that's the real problem with a TBR pile. We talk about it as though it's a list of jobs waiting to be completed, when actually it's a collection of possibilities.

Every unread book is something I'm still looking forward to.

Which sounds much nicer than admitting I've run out of shelf space.

I'm sticking with that explanation.