My Books.

The rearranging of the books continued, and I finally got it down to the Writer's Reference Bookcase, and the Little One In The Spare Bedroom Closet Full of Paperbacks. I took a few moments to look at what I had left, and thought about what to do next.

The Early County Library I grew up with was a pitiful thing. The School library wasn't much bigger. But both sites were holy to me, for they held books, and a little heaven is better than no heaven at all. I remember the thrill I once got from discovering a new book that no one else had checked out yet, and how it felt to find a good book, a really good book.

There were so many good books, really good books, left in both of those bookcases. The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy in paperback. The Dragon Riders Of Pern. The Xanth Series. The Dune Books. The Stainless Steel Rat. There were dozens and dozens of my old friends who I have not visited in such a long time. There were dozens of books to help a beginning writer take those first few steps, to not repeat the same mistakes again, and to find a voice hidden in doubt. There was Plato and Kant. There were books on nature and books on the nature of man.

Even as a very small child I loved books. Nothing, no single gift my parents ever bestowed upon me has given me greater pleasure in life than the love of books. No room in my house has ever been without a book or dozen. Even as a small child I recognized that books were unique and special to humans. I have always treated each and every book I have ever known with love and respect.

Looking at all those books I realized that I owned not a collection but my own private library. That little skinny awkward kid had grown up to love books still, and had the ways and means to take care of his friends, just as they had always taken care of him. I've lugged those books up and down stairs and loaded them into truck from move to move. Some have been with me since High School, and today I gave away almost all of them.

I owe them so much. My life is what it is because of books, and it's not right for me to keep them here, hidden away. What if one of these books, just one of them, reaches some desperate and broken kid in Brooks County? What if my copy of The Hobbit finds its way into the hands of a child who has never heard of it, and whose life will never be the same for it. I took them all, or at least ninety percent of them to the Brooks County Library today, two truck loads, and I gave them away. Like some literary dandelion, I took hundreds and hundreds of my seeds and I cast them into the winds, so that they might have a chance to grow.

Please god, let just one of my books reach just one child, and it will have all been worth it.

Take Care,

Mike