Confessions of a Compulsive Book Collector

My name is Tim and I’m a compulsive book collector.

There’s no point in denying it. There’s a pile tipping over in my closet. There are countless more in the basement. When I pop into my son’s bedrooms, I eye their book collections greedily, wanting to snatch several volumes from their shelves.

And we’re not just talking books. My computer bag is stuffed with back issues of magazines I haven’t read yet, copies of Weird Tales, Realms of Fantasy, Asimov’s, Writers Digest, Sports Illustrated — they seem to multiply by themselves.

Some people have eyes bigger than their stomachs; I have eyes bigger than my ability to read quickly. There should be a restraining order against me setting foot in libraries and bookstores. I need help. The cycle must be broken. I can’t go on collecting books beyond my means.

The only solution is cold turkey withdrawal. I must resist the urge to buy more books. I must ignore the reviews on Goodreads, the write-ups in Realms of Fantasy, the recommendations I hear on podcasts. I must turn a blind eye to all those attractive book covers I’ll see next week at Dragon*Con. I mean it this time: I’m swearing off book-buying.

At least until the Liverpool Library’s used book sale next month…

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