I love books, their sound as you flip the pages, the smell of the paper when you walk into a cramped bookstore. I love the heft in my hand as I cradle whatever I am reading. I love looking at what others around me are perusing. I love reading to my kids and encouraging them to love books as well. Just the thought of settling down and dipping into a good book makes me smile.
But here is my secret.
I hate the library. Oh sure, it’s fine for my kids -encouraged even. There is a wealth of children’s literature that I was unaware of. Not to mention that our local library has a stupendous children’s section with tons of selection and is separated from the adults so that the kids are free to run about and not be scolded for making noise.
For them, I love the library, but for me? I cringe over it. My obsessive compulsive nature is bothered by a cracked spine or a torn page. My nature seems to require that a book be in pristine condition unless I am the one that made it so. Even at book stores I sift through my possibilities and hold back until I find one without any creases or tears. I don’t know how to stop being this way.
My other issue is the desire to not give back the thing that I hold so dear. My favorite part of reading a good book is when it is finished. I will close my eyes, hold it to my chest and just sort of breathe in its essence. I like knowing that I can return to it at will and sift through the stories again. I am a bibliophile, I reread things compulsively even as I collect new things. I love my books but like a child, I do not wish to share them with strangers. Close friends? fine, just don’t break the spine.
So. My name is Danielle and I have a problem. Wonder if there are any meetings out there for people like me?