At the beginning of the year, I made a commitment to stop adding to the to-be-read pile here, apart, of course, from charity shop book shaped purchases.
Shortly afterwards, I added books bought with birthday or Christmas money to the exemption list.
Then I had to include books acquired on holiday.
Plus the ones which inexplicably fell into the shopping trolley, virtual or otherwise.
I know, I know.
I'm kidding no-one.
It clearly hasn't worked.
I give up.
I have no willpower.
I'm Liz and I can't stop buying books.
I read reviews in newspapers, magazines and blogs and I have to have the books. I mean, if someone much more intelligent than me thought it was a brilliant read, then I'm bound to enjoy it.
Waterstones send me e-mails announcing their Book of the Week/Month/Year/Decade and I have to have my own copy.
There are lists of the 100 books everyone should read and the titles coming soon to a store near you. I duly make a note in the appropriate section in my reading journal.
Then there are those books I buy that I've already read. This isn't intentional but simply because I forget what a book was about just as soon as I've moved on to its successor. (Those annual 'books read' lists in the sidebar over there? Nope, no bells ringing with most of them.)
I've tried going down the e-reader route but I'm not a big fan (old dog, new tricks and all that) and prefer the real thing. Granted, a Kindle takes up very little space on the bookcase but shelves were made for books.
I like the feel of a bound wad of dried out wood pulp in my mitts, I like being able to gauge my progress through a book by physically seeing where the bookmark is and I find it much easier to remind myself who's who (and I find I need to do that more and more) by flicking back through actual pages.
Borrowing from the library or from friends doesn't work as it turns out I'm unable to read books which I have to give back. (What's that all about?)
It's not that I have to buy constantly because I read loads as I don't. I'm not averaging a book a week these days and, at the rate I'm buying, I'll need to live long enough to receive several telegrams from the Palace to have even a slim chance of making an impact on the unread stash.
At least I'm much better at ridding the shelves of those titles I have no intention of re-reading, those I failed to finish and those which have no sentimental attachment.
This is the current book at bedtime (1717, Swedish Lapland, strange goings on).
We came across the teeniest bookshop when we popped to the seaside last weekend and there was this one copy on display (hardback, full price). Actually, the shop was so small I think there was only one copy of everything.
'I'm only going in for a quick browse', says I to the mister, knowing full well I was never going to leave empty handed. I never leave a bookshop empty handed.
'What's that look for? I'm supporting the small independent retailer', I declared huffily as we made our way back to the car a little later, me carrying the latest acquisition.
So there it is. As far as books are concerned, I have no self control.
I think I need a copy of this.
That's a joke.
I've already bought it.