Why I Collect Books but Never Read Them

In my senior year of college I took a class called Writing for Publication. It was such a fun class and I learned a lot about writing. This was one of the first pieces we wrote for the class, for the prompt “Why I.”

I walk into a bookstore, say Barnes and Noble or a local neighborhood bookstore. It doesn’t matter where; I’ll go where the books are. I go straight to the contemporary fiction, young adult fiction, science fiction and fantasy, I’ll even peruse the entertainment section. I browse through the shelves, picking out books and looking at the summaries on the back or inside, looking at the covers, trying to gather the story that hides within the pages.

I grab a basket, pick out one, two, three books, maybe a bookmark or two. Oh look, another book I need. I carry my now heavy basket of books to the register, no shame in my assortment. The cashier does not blink an eye, instead only asks me if I want my receipt or need a bag. I say no—I need people to see my bounty. 

The books stay in the front seat with me—no, I don’t buckle them in, that would be silly. I just pile them on top of each other, stealing a glance at them every now and then, maybe taking a look again at a stop light.

When I go home, I announce my entrance to my parents, who are sitting on the couch watching television again. They say hello without looking up, ask me how my trip to the bookstore went, dinner is on the stove. I head up to my room and gently place the books on my bed, all spread out so I can see each one individually. I smile.

Then I go downstairs. 

I join my family at the couch, watching TV. I grab myself some dinner, suggest what we watch next. Settle down.

It gets late. I go back upstairs, get ready for bed. I spot the books on my bed. I pick them up again and set them on one of my bookshelves. Not in the actual shelf, but on top of some other books, even in front of some. Then, I scroll on my phone until it gets ungodly late, the I go to bed. 

And the new books…just sit there, collecting dust among the other piles and piles of books I haven’t read. Sometimes I’ll sell them before I’ve even read them, because I’ve lost interest or it was spoiled for me. 

And why do I do this? Why do I buy books on books and neglect them? A few reasons, I think.

One, the thrill of it. Of buying books, of awaiting the wonder in the pages, of seeing a book you’ve been wanting to read and thinking it’s a sign. Of a new adventure awaiting you whenever you need an escape. 

Two, of trying to impress the bookstore employees. To show them there are still people who love and support local bookstores instead of online ones named after a rainforest. To make them think I am incredibly well-read, smart, and downright cool. I want them to know I’m an English Major, I read and support bookstores, and that in itself is very cool and makes me seem  hot.

Three, the possibility of escapism, but the fear of jumping in. Of making that first step. Of the journey AND the destination. There are so many things I want to read and experience, but what if I don’t like them once it happens? What if it’s not as great as it was hyped up to be, or if I’m let down by the ending? What if I find something I don’t like? If there’s one thing books taught me, it’s that you can’t look ahead in life and plan everything, make everything perfect. It’s impossible. 

Four, practical reasons. I have too much homework or school is keeping me busy, so I don’t have a lot of time. Or I’m reading another book right now. Or I have too much going on in my life, emotionally and mentally, and I need to reread another one of my comfort books. Or I’m just not in the mood. 

But rest assured, at some point they will get read. Maybe not by me. Maybe I’ll sell them to a used bookstore. Maybe I’ll give them to a friend. Maybe book gremlins will become in at night and read them first. 

But they will get read.