As anyone whose visited my home knows, I own allot of books.  My study has three bookshelves, double and triple stacked with – at last count – over 1,500 paperbacks, trades and hardcovers – 99% of which are fiction.  The thing is, those 1,500 are my unread book.  My read books, which also number in the thousands (though that does include allot of Doctor Who Target novelisations, my staple as a young boy growing up), ar, for the most part, stored away in boxes.  One day, when Jules and I own a house, those books will come out of their boxes and see the sunshine again.  (I get a bit weepy when I think about it).

Anywho, I know that I’m not alone in owning over 1,500 unread books.  (By the way, at my current reading speed, it would take me just over 20 years to get through them all, without buying another novel).  I know that Justin Ackroyd and Bruce Gillespie have rooms entirely devoted to their book collections.  (And Justin owns boxes and boxes filled with read books that could easily fill two or three second hand bookshops).  I’ve also heard a story of a fan who collected so much that he bought two houses, to store his collection.  (Even I admit that’s just a little bit insane).  And I’m sure there are people on my flist who also have a huge collection of unread books.  It’s an affliction of the genre fan.  Though, out of the many afflictions a person can have, I think it’s one of the better ones.

Of late, I’ve culled maybe 100 or so of my unread books.  It hurt getting rid of them, but I’m also starting to realise that there are some books I’ll never read.  I’lll never finish the Anita Blake series.  I’ll never read Peter F Hamilton’s Night’s Dawn trilogy.  And as for Van Vogt… I’m sorry dear, venerable sir, I just don’t see myself sitting through one of your slim novels (though I did keep a copy of Slan).

But whenever I see Justin, or listen to the New York Times Book Review podcast (which I’ll post about one of these days), or when I read recommendations on LJ or when I just have an innocent chat to a friend and he happens to mention five or six books that are absolutely up my very large alley (out of the gutter people) I can’t help but buy, buy, buy.

This urge to buy might be a form of OCD. But I know that’s not the case.  Not just because OCD is far more complex than the urge to buy something, but also because I’m not willing to label my love for books as some sort of psychological issue.  The fact is, I adore books.  I love the way they feel, smell, flop (thank you GJ) and basically look so cool on my bookshelf.  And while God and the publishing companies keep publishing books from a variety of fine authors, I’ll keep buying the buggers.

Though… um… in deference to the fact that my gorgeous wife would like to navigate through the house without having to negotiate between islands of books… I promise to make sure there’s always room.  Even if that means putting books in boxes – an act that always makes me cry.