My Library

When I was a little girl, I always pictured myself living in a large white Victorian house in the center of some Norman Rockwell New England town. In this fantasy, I had a garden in which I would prune and weed while dressed in a straw bonnet and a library, dark with cheery wood shelves. Something that looked like it came out of My Fair Lady (two floors with a wrought iron spiralling staircase? Yes, please!). My intention for this library was to own collector's titles -- first editions of Dickens, et. al -- and autographed copies of modern authors. My shrewd eye would help me divine who would be the Hemingway of tomorrow even though I didn't really like Hemingway to begin with. And all the other shelves would be filled with titles I had read. I would lend these books to friends and family members. Quite like the public library. However, ever the practical child, I knew that I would have to start this collection right away as it would require a lot of money and time. So I did. Babysitting duties started around the age of 11 and all my cash was poured into making book purchases usually from the best seller shelves at Caldor. I loved these books. I read them and re-read them and felt good about myself for being so well-read. I didn't realize that a best seller didn't necessarily mean good literature. I only knew that other people said they were good and, well, I liked them, so I bought with zeal.

By the time I moved to New York, I had approximately six boxes filled with hardcover books. Maybe more. Mostly from the Doubleday book club and mostly commercial fiction. The books not from the book club or commercial fiction were classical novels with faux leather covers usually bought on the cheap from Barnes & Noble. Once I got into publishing, however, and -- one step further -- started working at Barnes & Noble in Union Square, my literary tastes expanded. At the time, I would probably have said that my literary tastes "improved" because now I was running with the New York literati who knew that Julie Garwood was a romance novelist and not a serious writer and would flinch when I would admit that I had read her entire canon while I still hadn't gotten around to picking up Trollope. I learned to shut my mouth about my romance predilection and hide the bodice rippers under my pillow at home, while I carried around the latest copy of Philip Roth. And, of course, I collected more books. Lots more books. First edition copies of books that won Pulitzers and Mann Bookers and autographed copies from authors I -- or others -- admired. (And in one case, an autographed copy of a first edition Pulitzer winner from an author I admired. Score!) A friend of mine gave me a few bookshelves and quickly they were filled to capacity so I stored more books at my office. By the time I left New York, I had easily filled ten boxes. the weekend I was scheduled to move out, my sister and I sat in the middle of my living room on 33rd Street while I went through every title, deciding which ones I couldn't possibly part with and which ones I could. By the end of the process, five boxes made the cut to go to Connecticut to join the rest of the "library" while five boxes went to the Strand.

Back in Connecticut, I pulled out those first six boxes. But now I was embarrassed by those teenage purchases and started to go through those titles exorcising my more pedestrian choices. Goodbye Nora Roberts, John Grisham, James Patterson, and Judith McNaught. By the time I finished with that process, I was down to a neat seven boxes.

This act of book shedding continues to this day. Except, each time, it's a different, random criteria for a title to make a cut. I assume that one day, I will be down to just my first editions and my signed copies which will probably be a slim two boxes. And while I haven't totally given up my fantasy of a big Victorian house in a Rockwellian town with a garden and a My Fair Lady library, I've come to a certain realization about myself: I'm really a transient with pedestrian tastes. Looking back over my life, that's always been the case and I don't really see how that's going to change in the next 35 years.

In L.A., I only have one bookcase. I am now swearing by the "one book in, one book out" rule of elimination. Meaning, for every book I buy or get, I have to make a decision as to which title gets the boot. Sometimes this works admirably. Other times, books will get stacked on top of other books so that they technically fit on the bookcase while not really fitting on the bookcase. Recently, I mailed three titles to a friend which felt karmically freeing. I'm buying less hardcovers and more paperbacks. And if I don't read something within a year, I determine whether I really still want to read it. No more storing for "later". It's not easy letting go of a childhood image of your life, but sometimes its necessary. Building castles in the sky is one thing, storing a multistory library in your mother's attic for that castle is something else.