As I’ve been reading more and thinking more about reading lately, I’ve been pondering my collection of Stephen King paperbacks. I rarely read anything by King anymore. I have read maybe half of my collection and will certainly not re-read those that I have finished in the next decade. They take up at least one whole book shelf (I’m pretty sure there are more in a box somewhere) and I don’t have a lot of bookshelf space to spare.

So what is the sense of this hoarding? It’s silly, right? But I’ve had them for almost half my lifetime and for quite a while they were nearly all I read. I even wrote a paper in a college English class comparing the first several pages of one novel (I can’t remember which one but I know I haven’t read it) to Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. And maybe some day, one of my children will become as infatuated with King as I once was and I could pass my collection on to them. But then I’d be denying them the pleasure of seeking out and collecting these books — especially the lessor-known ones — on their own.
So I think the collection and I will soon part ways. I’ll have to do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
And is the bigger question: Why do I agonize over such ridiculous choices?
(points to the first person to guess my favorite Stephen King book)