There is not a room in my home that does not have books in it.
The strangely-large hallway is home to my bookshelves.
My bedroom nightstand has a minimum of three books at any given time.
The big giant room with the annoying American kitchen, wonderful old dining table and living room essentials has at least five books – usually two on the dining table, two on the coffee table and one in the windowsill. Plus assorted notebooks.
Oh, and my son’s room is filled with all of his books. And a few of mine. I think they migrate during the night.
All these books are ones that I am either currently reading, have just finished reading and haven’t got round to putting away yet, or just needed to look something up.
Then there are the ones in the bathroom …
Bathroom books are ones that I’m just not that in to.
You know those books. The ones you bought because they sounded great on paper but that you just can’t get into. The ones you don’t really want but can’t throw away because throwing away books is just plain wrong. The ones where if you drop them in the tub it won’t be a great loss. Or the ones you’re secretly hoping will get better if you can just get past the first fifty or so pages because they sounded so good in the bookshop.
You keep them around just because it’s always good to have something to read.
At the moment I’m reading one that is making think back to when I was fifteen, in France and in love. Both for the first time. I’m still not really into it, but it’s making me remember a time in my life when the sun was always shining and I couldn’t imagine things not turning out the way I dreamed they would. And it’s making me think about a story or two I might like to write one day. We writers really can find inspiration in the oddest places.
Even in the bathroom.