Much to my husband’s dismay, I have a book addiction. I’ve never met a book that I wasn’t eager to add to a teetering tower in my office. Since I’m a reviewer, I get more books than I can possibly read from publishers — it is rather amazing and terrifying how eager they are to send me books. Not that I’m complaining. I was one of those girls who’d rather get a book than a Barbie doll. Never could figure out what you did with one of those.
For me, though, it’s not enough to receive books by the pound from publishers — there are always books that I want — need — to purchase. I mean, what’s a girl to do when she knows she has a copy of V, but can’t quite figure out where it might be stored (yeah, the daughter of a librarian, and I can’t come up with a good storage system for my books)? Buy a new one. Thomas Pynchon isn’t complaining. It’s only embarrassing when I have to explain why I have three copies of Nora Roberts’ Carnal Innocence (let’s just say it’s a long story and I don’t come out looking good). And since some members of my family fully support the loaner book concept, it’s not like we don’t have spare copies of Snow Crash hanging around. Just in case.
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