Confessions of a Book Whore: Books are my Life

 

Coffee-monger, mulit-published-author, editor, blogger and out-right kick ass gal, Nerine Dorman confesses how books are her life.  You can find Nerine on her blog as well as tweeting the weboshpere on twitter.  Her published works include Khepera Rising, Khepera Redeemed, The Namaqualand Book of the Dead, Tainted Love (writing as Therese von Willegen), Hell's Music (writing as Therese von Willegen), What Sweet Music They Make, and Inkarna.

 

 

 

Books are my life. Now that is the understatement of the century. And my house contains more books than I’ll read in three lifetimes. What’s worse, is that part of the reason why we bought a bigger house was so that we’d have space for all our books (not to mention the large garden where we regularly lose our dogs). 

 

This all started innocently enough when my mother bought a copy of The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien, which she started reading to me when I was a young and impressionable six.

 

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

What a way to start a book, and while my mom didn’t finish reading The Hobbit out loud in its entirety, I went on to reading the entire thing by the time I was 11. I was that kid who preferred to hang out in the library during breaks, not just to get away from the kids who teased her unmercifully for being a “boff”, but also because the worlds contained within books have always been far preferable to the world as it is.

 

While studying graphic design I was convinced I’d eventually become a photographer employed by National Geographic, so I too could explore forgotten ruins in the Yucatán or stalk lion prides in the Serengeti. I settled for a less stellar career in print media, but I never quite recovered from my addiction to the written word. And eventually my travel writing did get me kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland, and cruising down the Zambezi River at sunset, so I can’t complain too much.

 

Books. I write ’em, I review ’em, I collect ’em.

 

The first question I get asked is, “Oh, so you’re a published author. You must have made lots of money.” 

Erm, no. I still have a day job. And I won’t be quitting it any time soon. I love writing, but I’m evidently not in it for the money, otherwise I’d be writing the next Fifty Shades of Smut. My head is full of stories and I can’t afford therapy, so I write to make the voices stop. Money’d be nice, of course, but jawellnofine, I’m happy to write the kind of stories I want to read.

 

Reviewing them? Oh hell yes. People pander to my sickness and throw books at me. Love ’em or hate ’em, I feel the need to write about the books I read. Sometimes the books editors at the newspaper publisher where I work will use my reviews. I still make little wriggles of delight when I see my byline in black and white. Sick little puppy that I am. Mostly I blog about the books I read. I put my reviews up on Goodreads and Amazon because I know authors love hearing what people say about their books.

 

Lastly, as fast as I try to empty my shelves to make space in my Treehaus, I invariably end up buying more books. Some are old, collectors’ pieces more than a century old. Others are cheap pulpy paperbacks. I’ll read ’em one day. No. Really.

 

Mostly, folks’ll see me on the train, my Sony Reader in hand. I can’t wait for the day when I get my first kindle. I don’t care in which form the written word exists. I’ll read it. Now, if only I could figure out how to get by without sleep.

 

 

 

Are books your life?  Oh please, 'course they are ... Tell us ...