What is it with me: I believe New Hampshire is fifty miles away, that I can run errands with ten stops in under half an hour, and that I can read all the books I have on my shelves.
In preparation for the book sale this afternoon, I've copied and printed out the listings in the sidebar so that I don't keep coming home with duplicates. Then, as would anybody with a mathematical mind, I counted them up: 250 unread in the bookcases, 150 read already (not counting all Stephen King's, the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series, the years of mystery and crime and romance where I went through a book a week or more, and any of those I simply don't remember). Of course, my analytical nature forced me to carry this train of thought to its unhappy conclusion: In the past couple of years I've read on average only fifteen to twenty books a year. Which means I'm not likely to be alive long enough to go through all I already have to read.
Which means that I have to read faster, play with the computer a lot less (though I've heard that I should in fact play more, and games at that), or retire early if I don't want to leave behind a rock in the woods that says "Susan – She didn't finish her reading." under which my ashes lie perpetually in shame.
But then, there's a book sale today, and I just can't not go. It used to be shoes.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology