We had to move my books from the library during the move, so my husband could remove the bookshelves from the wall without worrying about when the movers wanted to put them on the truck. My empty living room became a sea of books from the fireplace to the wall about knee-deep.

It probably goes without mentioning that I love books. The sea wasn’t all of them, some had been moved to the basement to de-clutter the library and others came with me to my temporary home. As I looked at them, I realized how impatient I was to be reunited with them again. It was all I could do not to snag one of two to read right then. [Despite corralling two children away from the action of the packers.]

How do you explain to someone who doesn’t read about the joy of books? How can you ever hope to get into their heads how the fiction takes you away to another place? How the nonfiction infects your brain with more knowledge? How much space those engineering textbooks take and how heavy those things are?

Some days I’m not sure why we keep those textbooks – they were in storage for 10 years, never touched, yet they are guaranteed space on my shelves, along with my fictional pursuits in various stages of editing and first editions from published works. It’s an odd mix that the estimater under-estimated for my home.

While I’d love to share those books with everyone, especially to get the nonreaders to understand the greatness of print – I get that not everyone’s going to get it. [It just makes me sad, as a writer.] I don’t let go of them easily. Even the ones my husband questions, like “Dummies Guide to Coaching Basketball.” No, I’m not sure I’ll ever need it, but you never know when it’ll come in handy.

My writer-friend Shawna once said she’d never be surprised by any book I owned. I like that – she understood that I love books and I can’t resist the treasures they hold. Thomas Jefferson said it best: “I cannot live without books.” And why should we?