My days have been consumed with books.  I’m speaking in the immediate sense, though, really, it’s an overarching truth in my life.  Currently reading three at a time to meet deadlines on committee obligations and to keep up with volunteer reviewing lists, I am a little lonely for some old favorites.  I am obligated to five more titles by next Thursday.  Yes, five.  Beyond that, I need to read 25 by December 1st.  There’s a big, bulging bag of books in the closet that I can’t even bring myself to count right now and those, though not strictly on deadline, really need to be done, well, sooner rather than later.

However, for my own sanity, I have a few I need to read.  If I could just squeeze in a couple of them before the first day of school, I would be so happy.  Give me Skipping Christmas by John Grisham in August and let me read a new Luanne Rice before fall.  If I could breathe in Anne Morrow Lindberg’s A Gift from the Sea before Thanksgiving, I’d be happy.  After that, let everything else stand aside until I’ve read A Christmas Carol; The Angel, the Shepherd, and Walter the Christmas Dog by Dave Barry; and Debbie MacCromber’s Christmas Letters before Santa pays a call.

So many, many to read both new and old.  What joy there is in a stockpile of books!