The only thing more ironic than reading zero books on your two-week Great American Bookstore Tour is reading one book: a series-concluding young adult novel that I didn’t even buy in print.
In my defense, I did buy nearly 40 new books over the last two weeks, books that have been relegated to a “special” pile atop my kitchen table, where I hope to be reminded on a daily basis that the endgame of buying dozens of unneeded (but oh-so-wanted) new books is that one must eventually get around to reading them. But I suppose dusty used paperbacks — who have spent their recent years crammed in overflowing bookshelves all over the West Coast — should be grateful to have a new and slightly more spacious headquarters in my tiny apartment. They should be thanking me, those books. I gave them a home.
Continue reading “Parents just don’t understand”
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