bib*lio*phile [F, fr bibli + -phile] (1824): a lover of books, esp. for qualities of format also: a book collector ~~ Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (tenth edition)

Yes! That’s me! A bibliophile! I love books. Overflowing floor to ceiling shelves fill the home I share with my family. Paperbacks stand in front of hard covers, small volumes rest against the large. Favorites hold places of honor on nightstands, end tables, and funny as it may seem, bathroom countertops. They are everywhere.

I love the way books feel, the way they look and the way they smell. Each and every one is different. The scent of old books is more than just an aroma; it’s an experience. Opening the cover of a well worn, well beloved book can sweep me away to another time before I read a single word. It’s almost as if sneezing at the mustiness of aged pages acts as a doorway to another world.

Going through flea markets and tag sales sometimes yields the most amazing books, some classic, others out of print. Some of the really old ones have color plates covered with slips of tissue paper to protect the illustration below. It always amazes me when I find a book with such pictures intact and I treasure them when I come upon them. I have to admit; I don’t often read those books. I’m afraid of breaking the binding or ruining the pages if I handle them for long. No, these are the books I take out once in a while so I can look at the pictures. I wonder about the writers and artists who made such book possible and then put the volume away. Without reading a single word, these unknown people inspire me and I manage to come away with a story all the same.

Old books have a certain sense of style. The writing is often more formal, some might even say more genteel. I don’t know if I agree but I do love to compare the differences in how written language was used fifty or a hundred years ago to tell a story and how it is used now. I love seeing how the old has influenced the new-- not only in content but in packaging as well. As in all things, some changes seem to be for the better, others are more questionable.

New books are in another class all together. They don’t appeal to my sense of smell in the least. Their charm lies elsewhere. It is the fresh, unread pages that capture my attention and pique my curiosity. A new book, not yet read at library or store, promises so much. While old books are comfortable friends who take me to well-known places, new books are new acquaintances full of surprises, adventures and uncharted territory. I, as the reader, am the explorer.

In the last few of years, I’ve developed what might be considered a distressing habit. I’ve decided I can write--and write I do. That is not such a bad thing, in and of itself, but I seem to be allergic to sending my material out for publication consideration. This habit makes it difficult to organize my bulging shelves. Sheaves of notebook and computer paper containing my scribbled ‘stories’ effectively bury any semblance of ‘order’. Because of this any sense of order my bulging shelves may have once had is buried under sheaves of notebook and computer paper upon which I scribble my ‘stories’.

My family wonders if I will ever get up the nerve to send something out so that it will have the chance to be published. I think they are cherishing the forlorn hope that my stories will get accepted, printed and bound. When that happens said book, my book, now neatly held together by the machine stitched binding of a sturdy hardcover, would replace the avalanche of white that is my private inventory of works by yours truly to date. I keep working to make that dream a reality but I have to laugh at the thought. It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to meet some fellow bibliophile whose overflowing bookcases contained not only the classics past and present but my works as well! Every bibliophile’s dream!