I had planned to write today. And I will. Later. I’m not a morning person. Now I’m laughing, because that might be the biggest understatement I’ll ever make.
So instead, this morning I cleaned out a couple closets. Just the ones that had old books shoved into the corners. Dusty old single title paperbacks, mostly romance. [achoo!] I don’t re-read — I’ve tried and I just can’t — so I knew I had to get rid of these books. There is NO POINT in keeping them. Really.
So I started pulling them out, lining them up in stacks of twelve as I went so I could figure out how many there were. It made me wistful to see some of those names, many who used to be favorite authors but whose work I never see any more. Or who used to write romance but moved on to other genres. Some good stuff there.
I filled up two shopping bags. Then three more. Then another. Look, here they are, on their way out the back door:
The cat was flicking her tail, expressing displeasure about the disturbance in the force. The two large bags each contain four dozen books. The four medium bags, three dozen each. That makes, um, let’s see, carry the one, oh that can’t be right– twenty dozen? Gasp. Two hundred forty books.
The nice library people are either going to love me or tell me I can never come back.