Reading Books

Yesterday I visited Reading Books. Yes, that's the name of a funky little bookstore here in Rockford which resides partly in a couple railroad cars from the 1920s and partly in a little building beside the old railroad track. Rare, used and out-of-print books fill this little shop to overflowing.

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Their promo bookmark says:

Take a ride on the READING for an express trip to anywhere!

We sell dreams, romance, confidence and peace of mind. 

Ride the range, slay a dragon, bake a cake, solve a murder! 

It’s all possible when you take a ride on The Reading!

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Resident cats, Zelda and Dickens, wander through the narrow aisles between the stacks of books from one room to the next.  Up a few steps into the train cars are rows and rows of fiction titles. 

When I asked the owner whether she is accepting more books, she pointed out the dozens of full boxes waiting to be shelved. Oh, my; what an overwhelming task. I sort of want to get a little souvenir from here, but I have my own dozen boxes of books sitting in storage that I must get rid of. Wandering through this labyrinth, this over-abundance of printed material, triggered various thoughts and emotions within me. At first I found myself thinking that I should not be a writer. That no one should be a writer - because there are already too many books in the world. I quickly realized how silly that is. Then I found myself thinking of how difficult it is to market books in this age of so many books and so few readers. Such a glut…

I tried to picture my name on the spine of one or some of these books and it seemed like a drop in an ocean. I asked myself why I even write and whether there would ever be a need for my writings. Then I reminded myself that I write for me and for a few people. I try to write what I need to read. Maybe someday I will decide that I need to concern myself with marketing what I write, but not yet. Not today. 

Today I write. 

Today I live life so that I have something to write about.