Tonight I find myself with a familiar, frustrating, but somewhat welcome dilemma. I have finished the book I was reading. It's time to pick the next one.
It's agonizing, but I love it. I read a lot (sort of like people breath a lot). There have been times when I've finished a book and have stalked from room to room like an addict in desperate need of a fix and can't find anything to read that I haven't read before or that I'm ready to read again. I mutter incoherently, pull books from shelves, shove them back, and whine and snap at anyone who is unfortunate enough to come between me and a bookshelf. For me, that's truly hitting rock bottom. It isn't pretty and I'm not proud of it. It's just the way it is.
My mother and sisters and I trade books. I have a stack in my kitchen and another in my bedroom--more that I haven't read yet. My children got books for Christmas (of course) and for birthdays and because if we are near a bookstore on the weekend we go in. They have started piles they think I should read. My friends borrow my books and loan me theirs and I have a bag with some of their must-reads waiting.
As a voracious reader, an addict in need of her next hit, I am empowered by the possibilities and promise of so much unread material within easy reach. Yet I find myself bewildered and struck powerless by an overwhelming inability to choose. To choose one. The one. The next book.