A mountain of books fell on me. Not literary, thankfully. But it certainly feels like that's what happened. One minute, it seemed, I was going with the flow and the next I have hundreds more books in my house and not many are leaving. WTF!!!! Okay, I found a few new place to dig for books. Not telling where until I am done mining them myself but they are close-by and untapped. I actually found a Hunter S Thompson book at one of the places! At the other place I found an ARC of JOHN KEROUAC's first novel. That's worth some loot!
At the same time, I feel a bond with every small press and unknown publisher out there who made great books that no one has ever heard of or read. The marketplace that is American can be a cruel bitch, heartless and downright cold. Audiences are fickle and uneducated. Writers are decades or centuries ahead of their "fans", if they are lucky to have fans.
And so it goes. A book runner, a scout, doesn't have the luxury of sentiment though. He looks for a book that will pay for his rent or his addiction. My addiction is the hunt, the moment of discovery, the pursuit. I don't NEED books. I desire them though. Greatly desire them. On days when it's raining though, I linger inside and climb my mountains. Reaching the peaks, I wonder how much higher I can build them!