There’s
not a day that goes by, likely not even a half day, that I do not sit down
somewhere with a book. I keep a book on my bedside table, one in my bag, one in
my home office, and, usually, a couple in the living room. I even listen to
books on my iPod while I’m driving.
I
keep them all going at once, dog-earing corners and setting them aside until
the next time I’m nearby. As I write this, The
Strain by Guillermo
del Toro and Chuck Hogan is cued up
on my iPod, The Quantum Thief by
Hannu Rajaniemi is hanging out near my bed, the Autobiography of Mark Twain, Vol. 1 is in my living room, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
waits near the chair in my study, Zen and
the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig bangs around in my bag
and Content-Area Writing by Harvey
Daniels, Steven Zemelman and Nancy Steineke keeps me company in my school
office. When
I finish a book, it goes into a big pile in the corner of my bedroom. About
once a year, the books in the pile get put into boxes, where they wait for me
to build new bookshelves.
