Between the Sheets

There are few things more extravagant to me than buying books I haven't read yet.

Sure, there are long anticipated installments in series that I won't hesitate to drop the cash on, but an unknown, even with a shiny cover and a promising synopsis, so rarely tempts me. I don't know what this means for my future as a writer. Probably that no one should ever buy my books.

Maybe it's that I know a novel isn't something I can return, whether I've been handling it for six hours or six weeks, and unlike an ill-fitting shirt, a narrative that dives headlong into descriptions of clothing and hair the color of autumn wheat has no hope with me. I can't turn it into pajamas, and I won't give it away. That sort of garbage should never be written, let alone read. I don't even care if you enjoy it. We're probably not friends, anyway.

What inspires me to write is that I have recently purchased two books on recommendations alone, even from recommendations that I trust, and it feels almost too indulgent, too daring. I've lined them up on the shelf alongside the library books in varying states of decay, my usual source for new material. We have an arrangement, these new books and me. Running my fingers over the glossy mysteries of their covers and making promises about the sweet, curled-on-the-couch-drinking-coffee evenings we will share, my thrills are something entirely different from what new clothes could stir.

I can always convince myself to take clothes back but books, books are worth going without sleep, without groceries, without sex. Just ask my husband.