Not in the case of emergency or in the case of my death but rather the piles of books yet to be read, precariously randomly placed throughout my house. Leaning towers of fiction that are romantic, fantastical, paranormal, mysterious, eclectic mountains with no order rhyme or reason; let mood dictate what comes to hand next.
Non- fiction that anchors and cleanses the palate, how to and why guides that stretch the brain in different directions, planting the seeds for the next question, the next quest. Expeditions to large chains for new releases, treks to the library to place holds and get entire series at one time, second hand places that introduce new authors ,new addictions as they make it so easy ‘just to try’.
Don’t bring them to read during work hours, the break room noises fade away, immersed in that world the time passes and I am oblivious.
Breaking up my time, my year by publication date, a flurry of new releases in January and March, the long wait between the most favorite plots; a story line that captures, the thrill of the gift card that feeds my addiction.