The dreaded TBR pile – saved for a rainy day

Today has been one of those rare rainy days that we get here, and at some stage I went through the pile of books in the little cupboard next to my bed.

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I set up this little bookshelf early 2012, taking anything I had not yet read out of my main bookshelf and storing it here. At the time I declared that I would not go back to the library until I had made my way through most of these, but I only read one or two. This is what is left, and the pile continues to grow while the library keeps tempting me to go astray. And before my Kobo fell from a great height and died, I had another stash of ebooks, all those lovely free classics, and only a couple of them were finished also.

Of the books pictured here, most were from secondhand bookshops, a couple were new, some were gifts from my mother and others gifts to my father (he returns them a few months later, so this influences what I buy him now!) Some I’ve had sitting around for almost 15 years. Naughty me! The stack at the front are books by AWWs (Australian Women Writers), so I might spend the rest of the year working through these, as I’ve only done one book review for #AWW2015 so far, and have five more to go!

I wonder at this tendency of mine to hoard books though. I live in such a dry place that when I save them for a rainy day, this is the result. But at the heart of it is fear I think, a  fear of what the future might bring. Perhaps I’m anticipating a future without libraries or bookshops or even books. So should it come to pass, well, you know where I’ll be!

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The Spider Goddess by Tara Moss

First Published 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia

the spider goddess

After the brain-rearranging Brenda Walker book I was crying out for something that wasn’t literary. And for personal reasons I have chosen a Tara Moss book, because Moss is the author I love to hate, much the way Miles Franklin loved to hate Mary Gilmore. Now while I am in no way comparing my writing with Franklin’s, I can definitely compare my professional envy.

I was 27 and had only recently gotten my first rejection for my first book, when this model turned author (gak! gak! gak!) first became famous. At that time she was still working on Fetish, which I did read some years later, once I’d put aside most of the envy. The rest of it disappeared on reading the book, which while competent, was not something that was so good I wanted to read another. (I did not have the desire to read another Phryne Fisher book either). There was also a realisation that Moss, having had a few marketing advantages, would have had to work harder to earn her place as an author.

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