No such thing, right? Unfortunately, that’s what I have.
I’m going to have to get rid of books. A LOT of books.
We’ve packed up my den/office/library/the-room-where-I-hang-coats-on-the-threadmill before for minor revampings and moving around and such. But we’re about to embark on a major strip and rebuild walls/change windows/actually throw in some insulation type remodeling.
The computer equipment and filing cabinets will probably be relocated into the dining room, as the company can’t close for remodeling. I’ll have tons of boxes—knitting stuff, dozens of family pictures, knick-knacks and such.
But the books. OMG, the books. I’ll box some—I have all of Karen Templeton’s books, my collection of Patricia McLinn books, and a bunch of Suzanne Brockmanns. The Darkyn and BDB series. I’ve got a dozen or so signed books. Then there’s my books and my friends’ books and…holy crap. Two shelves of nonfiction relating to Imperial Russia. Writing books.
Seriously, I have a big bookshelf’s worth of just keepers. What am I supposed to do with the hundreds of others? Am I really going to read anything from Mount TBR when I have new books coming in every day?
The prospect of dealing with it’s tres daunting. I can’t bring myself to throw them away—even the older ARCs. I’ve got too many to dump in the library’s book sale. Last time I tried to weed books, I couldn’t even get the women’s prison interested.
My head hurts just thinking about it.