On Bibliophilia

A mentor of mine once advised that writers with serious ambitions should read at least four books per week. I've recently upped the ante, raising the stakes to seven -- not per week, people -- per day. Granted, I've replaced the likes of Anna Karenina and Jane Eyre for classics by Dr. Seuss and Sandra Boynton. Tickle Time, anyone? Moo Baa La La La?

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I like to think of books as friends. Four friends arrived this week: Black Blossoms (Rigoberto Gonzalez), Monstress (Lysley Tenorio), Beautiful in the Mouth (Keetje Kuipers), and Kingdom Animalia (Aracelis Girmay). It's true that the bookshelves are crowded. Where, my husband asks, will my new friends sleep?

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People always want to know whether I was nervous about moving to the Middle East. Hell yes, I was nervous. I wanted to know what would become of my books! With a finite number of pounds allotted for international relocation, I had to cut my stockpile drastically. Out went fiction. Instead, I reduced my library to 98% poetry, 2% nonfiction. The rest -- I'd guesstimate 800 titles or so -- went into storage.



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Including this week's new arrivals, I have 449 collections of poetry and 49 of nonfiction at my office in Amman. Sure, the aforementioned percentages are off. I never claimed to be a mathematician.

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I hate shopping for clothes. I don't hoard shoes. I have little in the way of jewelry. When I gave birth, I didn't demand what some women call a "push-present." I don't have secret credit cards or eat at lavish restaurants. My car isn't fancy. I don't spend rent on handbags or covet designer furniture. Instead, all my extra cash goes towards books. Some used. Some bought overstock. Some so new their spines still crack. All of which are filled with pages and pages and pages waiting to be turned...

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I read to the baby throughout the day: Barnyard Dance, for example, and The Foot Book, along with the likes of Put Me in the Zoo and  Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You? He also responds well to Yeats and Keats and Plath. Ok, sometimes he falls asleep to Yeats. But it's a start...

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A few authors I know are inching toward the Kindle, the iPad, Sony's latest Reader. It's inevitable, they claim, the world is going paperless...

But I write in my books. Take notes. Fill the margins. When I teach, I teach from ideas scribbled in the space between stanzas and pages. Entire lessons emerge from such fragments. Discoveries mapped in chicken-scratch. Can't house those in a Nook!

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I've said it before and I'll say it again: my dad always taught me never to feel guilty about spending money on books. Needless to say, I don't. Not every word is read. Not every page is turned. But I maintain that book-binging is healthier than most habits.

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At night before our son goes to bed, my husband and I recite for him some extended version of Peek-A Who?  ("peek-a" -- moo, boo, zoo, choo-choo, Auntie Sue, gooble-dee-goo, you're eyes are blue, and other such madness), as well as several other selections. We always end with I Love My Frog. And he does. That kid loves his frog! And, if all goes well, he'll learn to love books -- just like his mama.


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Currently (re)reading: Crossing to Safety (Wallace Stegner)