Books. I love books. I dreamed of them last night. I was a short walk from two amazing and completely made-up bookstores and I had to make the glorious choice of buying anything I wanted there. The sun was shining very brightly and I had to squint to find my way. Apparently I had a pocketful of cash as well. I awoke feeling happy. This was one of those dreams you never want to end.

I love everything about books. Not just the ideas within, but I love the feel of books as well. The weight. The substance. I love the smell. I love old books. I love brand new books. And the sound the still stiff pages make upon the first opening.

I mostly buy books that pertain to my field, but any book is worthy of my devotion. Of course, children’s books hold a high station in my heart. Especially those I had read to me. I learned to read very early; I was four. My mother still carries a slightly irritated tone when she recalls having to teach me strictly to maintain her sanity. I pestered her constantly. She said the final straw came when one day I was fussing and crying, having spread the newspaper out all over the living room floor, upset by the fact that everything there was a secret kept from me. I confess I still feel like that. I get a little anxious by all the news delivered to me every single day that I don’t have time to read.

I measure my financial success by how much money I can devote to my habit. Like a crack addict, my blood races when I stand at the checkout, or get my email confirmation that my sale is complete. I chose my spouse because of a $60 coffee table book, but that’s a story for another day. My favorite job was when I worked for Waldenbooks when I was going to Ohio State. My retirement fantasy includes owning a rare bookstore on Sanibel Island.

I have two new friends, a married couple, who are very smart. They are both professors, highly educated and truly wonderful people. There were at my house recently alone with just my children. I was arriving a little behind them. Having time to wait, they wandered to my library. I display my books on the lowest two shelves backwards, their spines to the rear. Perplexed, they asked my daughters why I did that. My oldest replied, “Those are the books she read.” Before you chuckle and think how sweet children are, realize: My daughter is FIFTEEN!

A bibliophile I am, but not to the point where the books and all their chaotic colors, textures and decorations ruin my design plan. I turn the bottom books to prevent the room from looking too busy. (I stole this idea from Mitchell Gold and Bob Williams.) I have no fear of not knowing where the one I need will be. Searching, I have an excuse to admire each one, even for a millisecond.

Oh, and in case you are wondering, I haven’t yet read all the backward facing books. The realization just put a knot in my stomach.