For the record, let it be known that Saint Thomas Aquinas on Politics and Ethics does not sit on my bookshelf in vain. Someday I’m going to read it. Someday, my time spent at the secondhand shop will be rewarded. Saint Thomas is going to set me straight about the purpose of man and the order of the universe, all for a bargain-basement price.

Some back-story for my defensiveness: I like reading. A lot. I grew up in a household that made library trips almost weekly, never returning home without shopping bags busting at the seams with books. While great for my developing brain, those times early in my life made me what I am today: a person with a book accumulation issue.

Honestly, I don’t own much “stuff,” probably less than the average American. Other than clothes, the only things I constantly seem to accumulate more of are – you guessed it – books. I’ve got numerous boxes in the basement, more under my bed, and of course an overflowing bookcase. All my latest finds end up on the shelf, where they wait until I have a free moment to read.

Recently though, I’ve been noticing a bad trend in my bookcase. It’s full of books, yes, but mostly with titles I haven’t read. In between a worn copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel and my Bible lie at least twenty books that I don’t even remember opening. In fact I didn’t even realize I owned some of them.

There’s a collection of stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a Tolkein biography, Measure for Measure (one of several plays I keep vowing to read), a handful of unopened devotionals, and more. Where did all these come from? The closer I look, the more I see: two cookbooks I’ve never used, a book of essays about C.S. Lewis, a guide to post-college financial freedom, the list goes on. I may have glanced at some of these in passing, but as I look a growing sense of concern rises up inside of me.

When will I ever have to time to read all these? What makes me keep them? Where did I get a second copy of The Diary of Anne Frank? I’m realizing now that I’ve started collecting books instead of reading them. Bookstores, thrift shops, and yards sales are drawing me with piles of printed knowledge and entertainment that all too often remains on the shelf.

How did I go from the girl who read Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper in a single night to the person I am now, constantly accumulating books that I rarely enjoy? I think it’s because I’ve been trying too hard to guide my own taste in reading. I already have a lot of interests, but when I’m buying books I tend to pick titles that are either ancient or obscure. Sure, A Book of American Verse from 1935 is unique, but the pages are so thin I’m afraid they’re going to fall out if I touch them.

Now that I see how many books I own compared to the actual number I read, perhaps a change of habit is in order. It will be hard to avoid temptation, buy maybe I should steer clear of book buying for a while. Maybe instead of buying them, I can actually start reading the ones I already own.

That doesn’t sound too hard. I don’t have a lot of time to shop, and I haven’t been buying much lately anyway. Not, at least, since Monday night after a reading at the local coffee shop. Oh well, maybe next week will be the time that this book junkie reforms.

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