Monday, June 18, 2012


I'm moving, you know.

Moving necessitates packing one's belongings into boxes, bags, crates, or boxes. I like moving, but I hate packing, in part because packing requires me to actually look at all of my belongings and ask myself, "Why do I still own this thing?"

I'm doing a lot of throwing-away. A lot. Black trash bags are my good friend right now.

One genre of item that I am NOT throwing away is books. Oddly enough, I own a lot of books. Too many? Probably. But I'm not throwing any of them away.

I am looking at them, though, and I'm realizing just how dependent I am on others for my reading habits.

I read authors, you see, and the authors most frequently represented on my shelves are all recommendations. Friends have said, "oh, you ever read this guy? He's great! Checkim out!" And then I do. And a lot of times I get hooked.

Of the ten or so in my Favorite Authors List (yes I have one, no you may not see it), I discovered only two for myself: Gregory Maguire and Neil Gaiman.

Am I, then, a sheep? Do I have critical preferences of my own, or do I just consume, vacuum-like, whatever is recommended at me?

I'd appreciate your ethereal input, imaginary readers. How many of your Favorite Authors (or, if you read by series or some other commonality, that thing) are yours--and how many are hand-me-downs?

Long live consideration!

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