Okay, I admit it. I have way too many books. I have four floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed full, with some of the shelves double-stacked. And if all my books would fit into those shelves, I'd be very, very happy. But alas, they do not. (Even after I've carried four enormous bags full of books to the library in the past month!)
I have at least enough books scattered around the house to fill another shelf unit. There are tons stuffed down in the utility cupboard in the laundry room. And my active TBR pile has formed a serious urban sprawl along my side of the bed, a veritable fortress of words which I must breach each night just to get some sleep. I like to think there is some benefit from sleeping surrounded by all those words and stories, but who knows...
About a third of these books are research books, the lifeblood of my work. But the others? ::shakes head slightly::
My nightmare is that we have to move someday and I have to decide what to do with all these books. I really need to begin deciding if they are all truly keepers, and if not, why on earth am I saving them?
Even so, all my books make me very happy. When I gaze fondly at those shelves, I can't help but feel like a very rich woman, indeed.