On Books

I love books, the old fashioned kind made from trees. I love how they feel and smell.

Old books smell like wisdom.

I love how books look on my shelves. If you saw my books you might think I was smart. I like that. But the truth is you can be dumb and own lots of books.

It’s hard for me to get rid of books. One time I loaded my pickup truck with books and took them to the library book sale. I never did that again.

I have hundreds of books stored in boxes. I may never look at them again. I talk about getting rid of them. I should pack them in my pickup truck. Maybe someday I will.

When I read, I think my own thoughts. An author crafts a creative idea and I think of something else.

I always read with a pen in one hand. It’s helpful when you pick up an old book to just read some underlined sentences and put it back on the shelf.

As well as underlining, I write in my books. A blank page is an invitation to scribble a barely legible – but brilliant idea. Usually the notes have nothing to do with the content of the book.

Sometimes I wonder why I wrote something so mundane on the last page of a book. Some brilliant ideas aren’t so brilliant a day later.

Occasionally I go back and read the notes I’ve written in books. Usually I don’t. But when I do go back and read old notes, sometimes I find ideas that have stuck with me. That’s disappointing because it means I had the idea before.

Books are comforting. Books never forget.

I hope I’m a better person as a result of reading books.