How do you find time to read so much?
I spend less time than I should on my college homework, I take my books downstairs and read whilst I’m eating lunch. I pull them out of my bag and read them on trains to and from sixth form, I procrastinate on my assignments in favour of a storyline, because in no universe can French verbs be on the same level as a new world, with people and facts still left to be discovered.
I buy lots of books, too. This may be seen as a problem, considering that my large bookshelf now has no room left on the shelves (and a couple of them are double stacked, too). I like trying to keep authors and genres and pretty colours together – this is sadly now impossible.
One of my biggest worries is going away to university, mostly because I don’t want to leave any of my books behind when I go. I don’t trust my family to look after them, especially as I have two younger sisters, and I don’t want to lose any of them, and I know I can’t take them all with me. For one thing, we’d have to rent out a van.
I guess you could say that I’m too attached to my books. Which is true. But I remember where every single one of them came from, exactly, and which ones I bought at the same time, and which ones I’ve been given, and the stories behind the cracks in the spines and the missing dust covers and the missing numbers in the incomplete series.
Honestly, I just love books. I learnt to read when I was about 5 (I don’t know for sure, my mum can’t remember), and I remember being read The Hobbit in the evenings with my sister. We still have the same copy downstairs, and every time I see it I’m reminded of all those years which are far behind me now.
I got my first Skulduggery Pleasant book when I was nine. It was my ninth birthday, to be exact. It was the second book in the series, but ever since then I was hooked. I still have the copy I was given – it’s well loved, shall we say, but still in one piece. It’s been almost eight years since then, and the tenth book in the series is due to be released next April.
I have a hardback compilation of all the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books, which I’ve had since I was twelve. It’s truly beautiful, and I got yelled at for reading it under the table at dinner that night (something my family are always strictly against).
Then you have the books with writing in, the ones I have signed and the ones that came with dedications to people I’ll never know, never meet, and might have had all manner of things done to them. The ones that smell slightly musty, like they’ve been stuck in someone’s attic before being carted down to the charity shop.
Somewhere under my bed I have a collection of original French ‘Asterix’ comic books, which I sometimes pull out and pretend to fully understand if I’m feeling particularly arrogant. I’m getting good at pronouncing the words now, too, after about four years of owning them, so I can sound like a “véritable personne française” (that means ‘genuine French person’ for those of you who can’t be bothered to check in Google translate. Unless you’re fluent in French… I’m not, by the way, not yet. I used Google translate, as always).
I think I’ll end my spiel about books here, before the piles of homework I have yet to tackle start to gang up on me. I don’t trust them.