It’s late and I’m tired. I’ve spent most of the day painting. It’s going … all right. I can’t say I’m wonderful at it, but I manage. My jeans are covered in white finger prints. My bedroom is jammed like a bad game of Tetris.
Two bookshelves have been emptied, their contents piled in corners and stacked along the radiator. Apparently, I own quite a few books. A third of which I haven’t read. (I’m pulling that figure out of thin air. It could be half. I’m not sayin’.)
What on earth is she rambling on about? you wonder. (Yes. I can hear you.) Get to the point already.
I have a book buying habit. It doesn’t matter if it’s an ebook, a second-hand book or a brand new book … all come into my possession with a quiet frequency. And so my shelves grow more packed and my to-read pile grows up and up until they’ll be using it in basic astronomy:
Question: How far is to the moon? Answer: Ness’s to-read pile.
But … that isn’t the reason of this post. (Ha. I haz mizlead you. Maniacal Laugh.) I don’t feel guilty about my to-read pile. In fact, I’m comforted by it – the books are there for me when I need them. I can pick them up right now, next week or next year. They aren’t – to my knowledge – going anywhere.
I love owning books. Love having a personal library that I can gloat over occasionally. I love being rich in words and stories.
And yet, I’ve come to a decision. It doesn’t really have much of a reason behind it. (Other than self-induced torture. Obviously.) As with most of my decisions, it is impulsive and will not be immediately regretted.
I feel as if I need a drumroll.
I – Ness Kingsley – have decided …
… that I am not going to buy a single book in the month of September.
Wish me well, my friends – already do I hear the siren’s call of kindle offers, charity shops and the marvel of Amazon’s one penny books.