I got into a conversation with my husband tonight that got me thinking about our differences. Matt is not a big reader. While he enjoys a few things, namely books about mountain climbing, adventures gone awry, and certain biographies, he is not a bookish person like I am. Every once in awhile he'll pick up a book and read in bed with me, but that it maybe, MAYBE once a month. He just doesn't see the merit in constantly reading.
On the other hand, I have always been a huge reader. Ever since I could read I can remember lugging books with me on vacations and to doctors' offices and to ballet classes. Books were a great escape for me as a child, and as a teenager. I have no problem turning the TV off and spending hours before bed reading my book, or looking at book blogs, or researching new titles. It is something that really comforts me.
We never really have problems because of these differences. I enjoy reading my books at night, and he spends time playing XBOX, or watching TV. We simply find value in different things, and having different interests is good for us.
Anyway, Matt came home from work tonight and was helping me finish putting books on my new bookshelves (more on that Sunday). I had already dragged some boxes out of the closet that stores my books and I was trying to decide which titles I was going to display, since there was no way all of my books could be out (that is a dream for another day). He was rolling his eyes out as I rejected some titles, but grasped some and held them close. He asked about some, so I told them what they were about, and so on. It was a funny conversation and made me think a lot on how those hundreds of titles have shaped me.
To Matt, many of those books are JUST books, nothing more. He can look at the image on the cover, or the author's name and feel nothing. I, on the other hand, look at a novel on my shelf and I can remember where I was when I read it. I can feel the pages in my hands, remember the characters, and remember who I was when I held it. Each of those books doesn't just contain the story the author wrote-they also contain a small part of me.
So when Matt suggested I get rid of some-namely the ones I was placing back in boxes-a small part of me was hurt. While they were not big enough or important enough to go on the shelf, they are still a large part of who I am. And getting rid of them would be painful.
Perhaps I have too much of an emotional connection to my books. But their covers and worn pages bring back a lot of memories, and define me. I can't wait until I can help my children discover them in the future; pass them on so they can have their own stories and memories for the future.
Anyway, I was curious, how do you all feel about your books and your reading habits?